


Kingpin

by jamlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bombs, Child Abuse, Childhood, Drugs, F/M, Family, Gay Sex, Hetero Sex, Homophobia, IRA - Freeform, Irish Politics, M/M, Madness, Mental Health Issues, Murder, No Remorse, Non-con language, Origin Story, Riots, Sectarian Violence, Shooting, Underage - Freeform, Unreliable POV, Violence, age gap, casual treatment of priceless books, hints of coercion, shades of Sheriarty are inevitable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 101,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked
Summary: Jim's going to be king of the world. No one will stand in his way.(Part I of III. The story of the fall. This is going to be long.)





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

_Got the wings of heaven on my shoes_

_I'm a_ _dancing man_

_And I just can't lose_

 

 

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

 

He can feel the laugh coming. He can’t help it. It’s a bubble in his chest, an expanding balloon of air with edges like a knife, cutting him all the way up. It pauses when the ceiling falls in behind him, trapped between his lungs, pressing on his heart. Blood roars in protest. Dust coats the inside of his mouth. And then it bursts, ripping out of him like lightning through clouds; high, manic, _sharp_ , slicing the air in two.

‘You fucked up little bastard.’

He has to agree. A mirror hangs lopsided on the wall; his face grinning back at him through the ash and smoke, white teeth and too-bright eyes, blood running from a gash on his forehead. 

‘You _fucked up_ little bastard.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, and turns his eyes up to the man standing above him with a gun in his hand, shoving it against his temple.

‘Yeah.’

 

*

 

_Later_

 

 

Jim Moriarty stands on the roof of a block of flats. He is home, but not home; Belfast, not Dublin, a city on the same island, and in another country. Fitting enough, because he claims no nation any more; he is shedding the bonds of normalcy one by one, and this was an easy one to cut free. As easy as his family, as easy as cutting his name in half. Easier than calming his blood when there’s a knife in his hand, and too much anger not to use it. He is sixteen years old, watching a city burn, ash in his mouth and fire in his veins, vibrating with the need to blaze. 

He is going to be king of the world. The whole. Fucking. World.

‘Tommy?’

He turns his head at the name he’s using. Just a fraction. The man behind him is older; fat, strong, and unnerved by this slip of a lad who isn’t quite right. Who is, somehow, _wrong._

‘Maybe come down off the edge?’

‘Why?’ he says, and flings his arms wide, face turned up to the sky. He feels like he could ascend, if only he wills it hard enough. And he will, one day. But not yet.

‘You might fall. And the Army’s on its way, lad. We should go.’

The Army is not his problem. They’re not going to be looking for him. This nervous man is the only one who knows he had anything to do with the bomb - two bombs - the body downstairs, and the riot currently ripping Shankill Road to pieces. Again.

‘Noooooo,’ he says slowly, drawing it out, trying to listen to the pull of the stars, annoyed by the stretched vowels of the North. Annoyed by anyone who would attempt to drag him from his moment of burning peace.

‘Tommy, you’re bleeding. You’ve blown half the building up. It might fall.’

The man - whose unimportant name is Donal - sounds like his father did all through his teenage years. A constant note of worry in his tone, like being alone in the same room put him on edge. How very tedious.

He lets his arms drop. The moment is gone. The fire licking the inside of his mind turns to ember, red and then white, hot in the centre of his brain, a block past which no thought can survive. He just wanted to be left alone, Donal. You stupid, _stupid_ , creature. He spins on his heel and jumps down to the roof without a sound, alarm klaxons sounding between his ears, _alert alert, red alert_ , and the knife is in his hand before either of them have time to register how it’s going to happen, only that it is.

‘My name’s not Tommy,’ he whispers, knuckles buried in the soft flab of Donal’s belly, blood flooding his hand. He twists it, and earns a choke. ‘It’s Moriarty. And you’re going to tell people to watch out for me.’

Despite everything, the pain and the blood, hope flares in Donal’s eyes. Maybe it’s all right. Maybe his guts are not sliced open, spilling blood, and waste, tipping poison into his system as they stand. Maybe his legs will hold out, maybe he didn’t just soil himself. Maybe that smell is something else.

But then Moriarty smiles, and there is no hope left in the world. Nothing but teeth, and eyes that burn too bright. Donal sobs once in fear and pain, and is, in the end, glad to fall. Anything not to look at that any longer.

He’s found a day later, when the Belfast rain is helping douse the smoke of last night’s playtime, when the fire has been controlled and the ordinary people are back to sweeping up glass, laying blame, settling deeper into hate and fear. Donal’s shirt has been cut away to reveal the gaping wound in his stomach, and the letter ‘M’ carved into his chest. Police will puzzle over it for weeks, because it’s the IRA’s style to take eyes, shoot kneecaps and elbow joints, not…this. Whatever this is.

But in the end, they’ve got enough to worry about with the Republicans and the Loyalists, the constant pressure from London, the oppressive presence of the British Army. The death goes into a file and is left to gather dust, written off as an IRA man having pissed off his superiors, thrown away because of internal politics the peacekeepers never quite come to understand. It makes Jim laugh when he thinks about it, bright and high and manic, tasting copper from the air, remembering the warm flood over his hand. Not his first kill; no. No no. Not even an important one. But he remembers it, and _will_ remember it, because he remembers everything.

Everything.

 

*

 

_Dublin, 1981_

 

 

There’s blood running from his nose. Jimmy kicks his feet through the air, watching his toes swish five inches above the carpet from the height of this adult’s chair. Maybe it’s not blood. It could be snot, there’s always snot, but he’s not much interested in finding out. He hasn’t got a tissue, anyway. There was a handkerchief in his bag, wasn’t there? He doesn’t know where that is. He’s going to get in so much trouble, but that’s okay. Isn’t it? He doesn’t feel like he minds, even if his stomach is tight and the space behind his eyes aches. His fists scrape restlessly down the side of his legs, through the mud and grass stains on his shorts. One finger is grazed enough to bleed, and he rubs it over the protruding cap of his knee to see if a red smear will be left behind.

  
Voices mumble a little, and then a door opens to his left. He doesn’t look up, but he can feel them looking at him, all three of them standing there just looking at him. Everyone’s always _looking_ at him.

‘Jimmy, would you come in here, please?’

He doesn’t move. The ache behind his eyes gets worse, turning black, and solid, and dripping down through his neck, sticking him in place like tar. No, he doesn’t want to go in there. He didn’t do anything wrong.

‘Jimmy. In here, please.’

His eyes flit sideways in his unmoving head, daggers they can’t see. He hears his father mutter, ‘you should be taking a cane to the little bastard, that’d stop this nonsense.’ And he wonders - what nonsense?

‘ _Frank_.’ 

His mother, sharp and worried. And then the headmaster again, patiently ignoring this little family dispute.

‘Jimmy.’ 

He listens for his mother again, but she doesn’t speak up. Eventually, there’s a bad word and angry footsteps. He braces just in time-

‘ _Frank!_ ’

-and manages to keep his feet when he’s hauled upwards by his collar. He flails outwards with his arms, for balance more than anything, but catches Da across the stomach. One of the buttons on his shirt nicks his finger, and he cries out at the sharp pain that runs along the bone.

‘Mr Moriarty, _please_.’

‘Nope.’

He’s marched in, picked up by his shoulders and dumped into the chair on the other side of Mr Carmichael’s desk. The moisture from his nose is tossed downwards, hits the top rise of his lip and spreads along it. Blood _and_ snot. It tastes funny. He wipes it on the sleeve of his jumper as his parents take seats either side of him. 

The room settles into uneasy quiet. The overheated air glues itself to him as Mr Carmichael moves to his chair. It’s too still. Jimmy looks down and starts swishing his toes again, pressure crowding in from all sides but none as strong as the pounding in his head.

He didn’t do anything wrong. He _didn’t_.

‘Jimmy, can you tell us why you hit Ryan?’

Of course he can tell them, but why should he? Grown-ups say you have to do as you’re told, but more and more he’s not sure why. 

‘Look at Mr Carmichael when he’s talking to you. Don’t be so rude.’

Da’s voice has that note which means he’s going to get a leathering for this no matter what. No use making it worse. Jimmy looks up, past the concerned eyes of his headmaster, onto the brick wall behind his head. The bricks have all been painted olive green. Everything seems to be olive green, or beige or brown. Everything’s so _dull_.

‘Ryan said you hit him for no reason. Is that true?’

Except the building blocks in the classroom, and the Lego, and those weird little hexagon things you fit together to make shapes. They’re colourful, but they’ve got teethmarks in them too, and the edges are frayed so nothing goes together quite right. You have to _force_ them to be something. Sometimes the plastic is sharp, and scratches.

…there are six hundred and forty-one point five bricks in the wall behind Mr Carmichael’s head. The ceiling slopes at one corner and cuts one in half. That’s annoying.

‘ _Jimmy_.’

He lowers his eyes. ‘He said I was weird.’

The adults breathe as one. Relief that he said something? So if he hadn’t, they’d have just sat there and wound themselves up more and more, and they still wouldn’t know the answer.

‘He shouldn’t have called you weird, if he did. I’ll talk to him. But you can’t hit people who call you names, Jimmy. This is the third time we’ve had this conversation.’

They always say they’ll talk to Ryan. They never seem to find out that Ryan always hits him first. They don’t seem to know that Daniel and Conner were there today, and one of them pushed his face into the playground wall.

‘Tomorrow, you will say sorry to Ryan for hitting him.’

He will not.

‘And you’ll have to write some lines during playtime. I think you should say sorry to your Mam and Dad too, for us having to call them in from work again. Yes?’

He watches his toes swish above the carpet. The adults are moving a bit, not so tense in their seats now some explanation has happened. His head hurts with the injustice of it, but it’s nothing new, it happens every day. Someone does something stupid or mean, and no one cares.

‘Sorry, Ma. Sorry, Da.’

Will his Da say sorry to him later? He doubts it. He doubts it all the way out to the car, all the way home, all the way into the living room where he’s spun around by his collar, bent over the arm of the chair, and hit with a belt until he screams. It only takes six strokes, but it used to take three. He’s getting better at resisting.

‘Stand up.’

He stands up, tears dripping off his chin and onto the carpet. The beige and brown carpet, scuffed with marks from his flailing shoes.

‘I’m _sick_ of this, Jimmy. You’ve always been an awkward little bastard, and I’m _sick_ of it. D’you think my boss wants to give me time off to run around after you? D’you think we haven’t got anything better to do? Your ma’ll have to stay two hours later tomorrow, to make up her shift. All because a kid called you a name.’

Da is huge, towering, with an overhanging belly and a big moustache. His face is red, but his knuckles are white where they grip the belt under its buckle. Jimmy looks back down at the carpet, the searing pain dulling to an ache that’s weirdly pleasant, hot and thick through his whole body.

‘ _Enough_ of this, d’you understand? If someone calls you a name, tell the teacher. Or ignore it. You’re a smart lad. You should know better.’

There are seven hundred and sixty eight stitches around the outside of the sofa cushion. He has been alive one thousand, eight hundred and four point six-seven days, and the rest of this one is apparently going to finish with no dinner, no television, and no books. He trudges up the stairs, exiled until morning, wiping the remnants of tears from his cheeks. He walks into the room he shares with his nearest brother, one side a mess of toys and action figures; cars, trucks, tractors, a football, shoes, clothes, schoolbags. And his side; books, and a picture of the Milky Way on the wall. Everything is tidy, squared away, organised. 

His brother calls him weird. Davy. Davy calls him weird. And Stevie calls him worse things, but he’s older and has a room of his own, so it doesn’t matter so much. He’s going to have to sit on his bed and be called weird. Maybe he is weird.

He doesn’t sit on his bed. He sits on the floor on Davy’s side of the room, and tries to play with a car. He pushes it around the carpet like Davy does, and makes _vroom vroom_ noises, and waits for it to be fun. When nothing happens he crashes it into a tractor - better; he likes the noise and the dent it leaves in the plastic - but it’s ultimately unsatisfying. He retreats to his bed, facing the wall, and looks at the picture of the galaxy. Better. Much better.

‘Jimmy?’

It must be later. He looks up to see Davy in the doorway. His school tie is pulled down under an unfastened button, and his shirt is untucked. There’s grass stains on his shorts too, he notes, but he’s willing to bet he hasn’t got in trouble over them.

‘What’d you do this time?’

‘Nothing.’

He puts his eyes back on Pluto. It’s really cold on Pluto. It’ll be very quiet too, so far away. Closer by, Davy’s schoolbag lands on the floor, and the bed presses down under his weight.

‘Da’s really angry.’

Jimmy is not sure why it needs to be pointed out. Of course he is. He always is. And Davy always tells him, sometimes with glee and malice, sometimes - like now - with something a bit like worry.

‘Ma’s crying. He told her you’d end up in a special school.’

‘What’s a special school?’

‘Dunno. For people who are sick in the head, or can’t behave, or something. Glen Jackson’s brother’s in one. He drools and wets himself.’

That’s...horrifying. It must show on his face, because Davy leans in with a smirk.

‘Glen days he _drinks_ it, if he’s not watched.’

‘He does not. No one does that.’

Davy shrugs, and gets up. ‘That’s what Glen says. But his brother’s probably sick, I dunno. What are you doing?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Right.’ 

There’s a pause, which is probably Davy trying to decide whether to be mean, or nice. He doesn’t often consider such things. Jimmy doesn’t look at him to wait for the outcome, because he’s not bothered either way. Davy being mean isn’t as bad as when everyone else does it.

‘I’ll see you later then. I’m going to play football.’

Jimmy says nothing. He hears the ball being snatched up, and Davy dashes out to meet his friends on the street. Even without punishment, he never invites Jimmy to come and play. Partly because he’s thoughtless, and partly because Davy’s friends, and the kids on the street - even the ones who go to a different school - think he’s weird. He’s smaller than all of them. Quieter. Someone told him once that he stares too much; Siobahn’s older sister, what’s her name? Eileen. Eileen Mulroney. She was eight then, and when he’d told her he was waiting for them to do something interesting, she’d stared at him. Then looked uncomfortable because she didn’t know what to say, and had sidled off and never spoken to him again. 

He’s alright with that. She wasn’t interesting either. None of them are interesting. But they _think_ they are, which is annoying - or they don’t think at all, which is even worse.

Jimmy’s shoulders slump a bit, and he lies flat on his bed. His backside hurts from the belt. One lash caught him on the back of the thigh, and it’s throbbing hotly, uncomfortable against the blanket. He hadn’t felt it when he was staring at his picture. He feels nothing when he puts himself somewhere else. Sometimes he wonders why other people don’t do that, when they’re crying. Like Ma does when she thinks no one’s looking, or Ryan Munroe when he’s made to go to confession. Crying means bad things. If you don’t cry, the bad things won’t get you.

He lies a long time, very still. He waits for Ma to come up and tell him to get into bed properly, or for Davy to get in from football. The nights are getting dark early, but they’re allowed to play under the streetlights as long as they can be seen from at least one parent’s house. But when the door bangs and he hears his brother’s voice, he doesn’t come upstairs. He goes straight to dinner, and Ma doesn’t come. Jimmy stares at a crack in the paintwork for a long time more, and then gets up to brush his teeth and change into pyjamas. There’s no point feeling sad about it. It’s not like he _needs_ to be told what the time is, or what he has to do to get ready for bed. He’s five, not a baby. 

He’s still awake when he hears her footsteps on the landing. His door cracks open an inch. 

‘Jimmy? You in bed?’

He blinks at the wall, knowing she can’t see his face. She takes a longer breath, like she’s about to say something else…but then doesn’t, and just closes the door, cutting off light from the outside.

Jimmy blinks again in the dark. Then he shuts his eyes, and thinks about Pluto. It’s so very far away from here. He wouldn’t have to put up with them watching, and not knowing what to say. Not if he lived on Pluto.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Say Lou Lou - Stayin' Alive


	2. Chapter 2

 

 _Revelation in temptation_  
_Isolation, desolation_  
_Let it go_

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

‘Jimmy, are y’in here?’

The front door slams, sending a vibration up the walls. Jim closes his eyes and goes still, the end of an exposed wire in one hand, a pair of tweezers in the other. Steven’s early, and it’s annoying. He’s also loud, and _stupid_ , which is worse. Jim hears his bag hit the floor, and straightens up in his chair.

‘Jimmy!’

‘Up here. Spare bedroom.’

Feet thump up the stairs. Of the three Moriarty boys, Stevie’s the only one who inherited their dad’s build. Tall, muscular, and already running to fat around the belly. Jim spends a moment readying himself for the physical repellence he feels around his oldest brother. It’s something he hasn’t managed to explain yet. There’s no logic to it, and no fear of him. He just finds his skin crawling a bit whenever Stevie comes too close.

But it’s not like people don’t make him ill in a myriad of different ways. He muses on this as his brother swivels at the top of the stairs, in the three point two-nine seconds it will take for the door to be shoved open by a meaty paw, causing it to rock back into the wall, deepening the groove knocked out by years of this same action, repeated over and over and over…

He still winces when it happens. His hand tightens on the handle of the tweezers, pressing skin-warmed metal into his palm.

‘Alright, Jimmy? How are ya?’

Jim tilts his head to acknowledge the hand squeezing his shoulder - too tight, too _tight_ , he could stab between the knuckles, twist, and deprive his brother the use of his hand forever. But he just smiles and sinks under the surface of his mind, allowing Jimmy to slip back into place.

‘Hiya, Stevie. Good trip?’

‘Aye, not bad. Someone threw up on the boat, had to spend the whole ride on deck to get away from the smell. What’re you up to there?’

Stevie pulls a cigarette pack from his pocket, and takes a bent fag out with his teeth. Jim considers why he would need to impart this tale of a puking passenger, given that ferries are large and there’d be plenty of other places to sit that didn’t smell of vomit. Just filling the air with nonsense, as usual. He takes one of the cigarettes when the pack’s offered though, and lets go of the wire he was about to thread into place.

‘It’s a circuit board.’

‘Aye? What for?’

‘A new computer. You’re early.’

‘Still with the computers, eh?’ Stevie laughs, like it’s stupid to be interested in the things that are going to run the world very soon, and drops his lardy arse into the armchair Jim put up here for work purposes. He pushes his trainers off, flexes his toes in their grey and threadbare socks, and sucks in a long lungful of smoke. ‘I got the early boat. Thought I’d leave time to change before the pub.’

Ah, yes. The _pub_. Jim lights his cigarette, takes a drag, and puts it down against the edge of the ashtray. ‘How long are you staying for?’

Stevie eyes him. ‘Dunno yet. Why?’

Jim shrugs. No, _Jimmy_ shrugs. ‘Just wondering.’

‘Aye, well. Couple of weeks, probably. I want to see everyone before Basic.’

Jim contemplates shoving the tweezers into his own hand this time, but refrains. A trip back to England would be far more productive, and probably more satisfying. Or somewhere else. Anywhere else.

‘You’ll have to clear some of this junk out of here.’

‘What? Why?’

But the answer is with him before he’s finished speaking, and long before Stevie opens his mouth.

‘Davy’s coming too. Didn’t he tell you?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

Shit.

‘He said he was going to ring. He’s finished with exams today, and he’s back here working for the summer. He’s coming ’til September.’

‘Right, okay. Good.’

There goes ten weeks of glorious freedom. He’s spent so long being Jimmy, _Little_ Jimmy, and every time he has to go back to it he just wants to rip his own skin off, so they can all see what lies beneath.

Nothing but pleasure shows on his face. Little Jimmy Moriarty is a good boy, a good brother who loves his family, even if they’re all slightly nonplussed in his presence. Like they don’t quite understand; like occasionally they’ll remember how he used to be and can’t believe all that’s over with. But they want to believe. They want that very much.

He turns back to his circuit board, which is for a small bomb. ‘What time’s he coming? I might go and meet him. He’ll have luggage if he’s coming straight from uni.’

‘Ach, he’ll be all right. He’ll get a taxi.’

Stevie yawns and stretches, pushing his arms out and sending wafts of travel-worn stench out through the room. Jim fights not to recoil, or snarl at him for being in his space. Technically, this house belongs to all of them. Jim’s the only one who lives here now, but he can’t kick his brothers out without ruining four years of carefully-constructed cover.

‘Is there any food in?’

‘Dunno. Not really. I was going to go this afternoon. I didn’t think you’d be here for hours.’

‘Ooooh, you’re slipping, Jimmy. Normally got a plan for everything, haven’t you?’ Stevie is standing, and puts his hand down to ruffle Little Brother’s hair. Jim feels it coming and braces for impact, biting the edge of his tongue to suppress the red flare of rage. He keeps himself loose, acting surprised as his head is pushed around, his fingertips pressing into the seam of his jeans under the desk. ‘I’ll run out to the chippy. You want anything?’

‘Just a Coke, thanks.'

‘Need to eat something, kid. There’s nothing of you. I’ll get you some chips.’

He’s shoving his feet back into his trainers, and stubs his fag out at the same time, losing interest before the cherry is fully extinguished. Jim watches it continue to burn as Stevie clumps back down the stairs, and only moves once the front door has shaken the walls again. He picks his own cigarette up, ashes it, and takes a contemplative drag.

A full summer with Davy, and two weeks of Stevie. Not ideal, but not a massive problem. It’s not like they’ve ever got in his way before. It might even be fun, sort of. It’ll be the last time the three of them share a roof at all, what with Stevie off into the Army, and Jim’s always enjoyed the reminder of how much smarter he is than the idiots he somehow managed to get related to. It’s so motivating. Nothing pushes a person to succeed more than reminders of the price of failure.

And if they get in his way too much? Jim smiles slowly and grinds the end of his fag into the still-burning ember at the bottom of the ashtray. The light disappears and falls into black soot, leaving only a thin tendril of smoke behind. It curls into the air, twisting and writhing, until Jim purses his lips and blows it to nothing.

 

*

 

Stevie’s snoring reverberates through the whole top level, down the stairs, through the ceiling. Jim leans against the kitchen counter, spooning cereal into his mouth, tasting nothing, breathing in counterpoint against the racket. He was going to go over to the university, but Davy’s on his way. It means hiding a few things, reorganising the spare room, making room for everything in his shoebox of a bedroom. They’d shared for years, he and Davy, until he’d been asked to relocate for reasons he’s always pretended he didn’t understand. He understands perfectly, of course. There could be a lot of talk about why’s and where’s and what-happened’s, but in the end it boils down to the fact that Davy, two years older, is scared of him. Maybe not as much as he used to be, thanks to his stellar acting skills. But still enough to make things interesting when he comes over. Jim smiles at nothing, and sets his half-eaten breakfast on the side. He wonders whether it was their parent’s idea for Davy to come back to Ireland to work this summer, or whether he did it off his own bat. He’s always been pro-active in organising his life, but it’s hard to imagine him volunteering to spend six weeks with his little brother.

Not hard to imagine Stevie deciding to turn up. Stevie wouldn’t notice a bag of shit under his nose until someone shoved his face in it. There is no _point_ to Stevie. Davy, though…Jim taps his fingertips on his thigh, and hums a few random notes under his breath. He’s aware that he’s still smiling. Just a bit.

‘Jimmy!’

The snoring has stopped. Jim counts the long, long beats of the breath he pulls in, centering himself in his body. His mouth moves silently, forming words that will be yelled out any…second…n-

‘Stick the kettle on, would ya? Make us a cup of tea?’

Invisible fists batter the inside of his skull, howling with rage; with despair. He could stand here for five minutes and produce a verbatim script of every word Stevie will say, in order, in what tone and for what reason, for the entirety of the next fourteen days. He knows it, because he’s done it before. His insides curl in fury at the sheer monotony of it all. He counts and counts, and stretches his neck to the side, watching his heartbeat throb in a red pulse behind his eyes.

Then he flicks on the kettle, and turns to get another mug down from the cupboard. Two more weeks, and he won’t have to see him again. He can make it that long, even with what is inevitably going to happen in exactly nine hours’ time.

 

*

 

James David Moriarty, eighteen years old - nineteen in six days - has the permanently worried air of someone with the words _I’m not him_ constantly on his tongue. Jim finds this hilarious, even though there’s hardly been cause to use them for four years and anyway, there was enough difference between them as kids for it not to be necessary all the time. But Davy always _thinks_ he’s going to have to say it, that’s the funny bit. Maybe it’s not fair to keep him in this state of suspense, but it’s too amusing not to. Anyway, it’s not Jim’s fault they look so alike. They can blame their mother for that, surely? Genetics, whatever. It is what it is, and it’s never bothered Jim, which is the important thing.

‘Hi, Davy. Good trip?’

‘It was all right. Hello, Jimmy. ‘

Jim does not get up to help him drag his suitcases in. He flicks the channel on the TV, slouching with a disgusting can of beer in one hand and a fag in the other, as if they’ve all melted back ten years, and he’s taken their father’s place.

‘You’re not supposed to smoke in here.’

‘Tell that to Stevie.’

Tell it to their dad, poisoning all of them for years. Jim doesn’t smoke very often when he’s on his own, but it’s good for playing the normal lad. Besides, annoying Davy entertains the minuscule part of his brain he allows his family to live in.

‘Oh, is he in?’

‘Kitchen. Phone. Girl.’

‘Right.’ Davy props his suitcase upright, and balances his backpack on the top of it. There’s a smaller bag by his feet, and he’s carrying a sports bottle full of - Jim’s eyes narrow - Lucozade.

‘Got a sore throat?’

‘Yeah, I- -‘ Davy catches himself, and his eyes close briefly in resignation, like he’s steeling himself to endure this for six weeks. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Don't notice things?’

‘I’ve just got here. Let me get a cup of tea in me before you start being you.’

‘No idea what you mean, big bro.’

‘Stop it, Jimmy.’

His voice is scratchy, and there’s a slightly glazed look to his eye. Tonsillitis, then. Jim could tell him that Lucozade is zero use against that, but he can’t be bothered to take on a couple of decades of marketing aimed at idiots. He just shrugs, and lands the TV on some horse racing. Stevie catches the sound of the commentator, because the wooden hatch separating the living room from the kitchen flies open and he sticks his head in, phone still glued to his ear.

‘-hang on, darlin’. Is that Newbury? One of you twats want to run down to the bookies for me?’

‘No.’

‘No.’

‘C’mon, boys. I’ve got a tip for the four-thirty.’

The expression on his face is clear. A mixture of, _I’m the oldest; do as I say,_ and _I’m talking to a girl, don’t ruin my chance of getting a shag_. Like they should understand this, being blokes. Jim drags on his cigarette, and counts down to the row that is now six hours away. Davy’s eyes flit between his brothers, then he visibly bites words back and holds out his hand. Stevie grins, and slaps a tenner into it.

‘ _Danger Man._ Put it on to win. He’s seven to one - drinks on me if he comes in.’

Oh, look. There it is. The source of the argument. Jim wonders if there’ll be blood this time. Whether Davy will cry. Whether they’ll agree no one should call their parents in the morning, when Stevie’s sobered up, or whether Davy will have already done it by the time he’s awake, and Jim’s back home. The evening plays out behind his eyes as a movie already blocked, filmed, and edited. Only parts of the soundtrack remain to be overlaid; his own dialogue, depending on the vagaries of mood and brain chemistry in a few hours. His brain ticks over the possibilities, every possible remark he could make. He may be slouching in an old T-shirt and tracksuit trousers, just a kid wasting his Friday away, but there’s a fight inside; not to stretch his neck out to feel things pop, or to remember how he picked up that tic; to calm his blood, fizzing too fast in the arena of family, as it always has; not to fidget, to be calm, to stay nice enough to pass for a good little brother. An annoying little brother, to be sure; privileged beyond comprehension because of his brain, and talent, and manners, and that charming smile that’s almost _too_ charming at times. (Like maybe the politeness is a little too polite, the kindness a little too ready, like there’s something lurking behind it, ready to strike.) But still a little brother. The baby. A good boy.

‘Make him go himself,’ he says lazily, and then closes his eyes in anticipation of the hand that’s about to swipe down across his head.

It does. It musses his hair. He opens his eyes, and rolls them up to look at Davy. Davy, who shakes his head. Who might as well just _say_ , ‘don’t provoke him’. Davy, who without knowing it, fights not to be one of Jim’s puppets on the grand theatre stage of his life. Davy, who knows without knowing, that it’s too late for their big brother.

‘Won’t be long,’ he mutters, and heads out of the door he’s just walked in. Jim smiles at nothing, and then flicks Stevie the V’s without looking up.

‘Make him a cup of tea, at least.’

‘You could do it.’

‘You’re in the kitchen. Go on, or I’ll tell that girl I caught you shagging a goat last night.’

‘Fuck off. Gobshite.’

He puts the kettle on though, and goes back to his conversation. The smile slides off Jim’s face and he stares at the TV, at the horses going round and around and around. Five hours, and fifty minutes.

 

*

 

Doors open and shut. The bath runs, filling the house with the sound of pipes working, clunking away in this old house that used to belong to their grandparents. Stevie has the TV on loud for a while, some gameshow blaring up the stairs. But he turns the radio on when he comes up to get ready, the thing churning out chart hit after chart hit, interspersed with the nerve-grating awfulness of cheap radio ads. Jim is forced to listen to double glazing sales, second-hand car promotions, Dublin’s _NUMBER ONE INDIAN RESTAURANT,_  followed by the station’s own cheesy adverts for their DJ schedule. Stevie sings along to the latest hits while he’s in the bath. He’s got a good voice, even amplified off the tiles that are going to be dripping condensation for hours after he’s done. He doesn’t stop singing even when Davy bangs on the door to tell him to hurry up, he just changes the lyrics into something approximating _fuck off._ Jim breathes through the stab of hatred, sitting on the floor of his room, knees drawn up, a picture of Sherlock Holmes in his hand. As this little exchange is happening out on the landing, he turns and drops it into the box he keeps under the floorboards, flips it closed, replaces the wood and pushes a case of spare computer components over it.

There’s a knock on his door.

‘C’mon in, Davy.’

Davy’s face is a little pale, though there are two red patches on his cheeks. Jim pulls a tab of paracetamol out of his pocket and tosses it up to him. ‘You could just tell him you don’t want to go.’

‘I do want to go.’

‘Okay.’

 _Liar, liar, pants on fire_ …the voice that sings it in his head is not his own. Davy’s, maybe. Some kid from down the street. Eileen Mulroney? It hardly matters, they all sound the same.

‘Why aren’t you dressed?’

Jim looks down at his jeans and black T-shirt, and spreads his hands. ‘Who says I’m not?’

‘Come off it. Make an effort, or he’ll just kick off.’

‘It’s not like I’m old enough to get served, doesn’t matter what I wear.’

‘It’s not like you don’t have fake ID.’

Jim pulls a face. It’s not about ID, it’s about the way Stevie was never _not_ going to kick off. Because Jim was never going on this little brotherly outing, and they should have realised that this morning.

‘You’re sick, you shouldn’t be going at all.’

‘And I don’t start work until Monday, so who cares? I can be sick with a hangover, it won’t make any difference.’

Davy sighs, and runs a hand down the front of his shirt. He looks awkward in it, and too young now he’s shaved off the stubble he arrived with. Jim’s not the only one who’d be getting ID’d all night, if he were going where they’re going.

‘You’re not coming, are you?’

Jim shakes his head. But he does stand up and pull off his T-shirt, tossing it down on the bed and taking a different one from the wardrobe. Something dark green, that shimmers and hugs his body. Too tight; far too tight for any pub Stevie would be going to. Davy’s mouth drops open.

‘For God’s sake! You’re just - - why’d you do this, Jimmy? Fine, don’t come with us, but you don’t have to rile him up.’

He does, though. He really does. And he smiles as he buttons the shirt, making sure to edge the waist of his jeans down to show off the band of his underwear. He doesn’t take his eyes off Davy as he opens the pot of wax on his dresser, then begins styling his hair.

‘Jesus _Christ_. I knew it’d be like this.’

‘Don’t start. Another year or two, I’ll be allowed to do this legally.’

‘That’s not the issue, and you know it.’

Jim does not give a fuck what the issue is. The bathroom door opens, sending a waft of steam and Lynx flying out over the landing and into Jim’s room two doors down. He doesn’t look away from his styling, but the corner of his mouth quirks up as Davy looks nervously towards the sound.

‘Are you two ready, or what?’

‘Davy is.’

Davy’s eyes close, and Jim’s smile extends. He counts two beats, before his door is shoved open.

‘Why aren - - what the _fuck_ are you wearing, Jimmy?’

Oh dear. Big Brother is angry. Jim blinks slowly at his own reflection and thinks of Belfast, the dust and the smoke, the blood on his face. He liked his smile better that day. There was a feral quality he enjoys, and doesn’t get to see enough of.

‘Clothes?’

‘You’re not coming out dressed like that.’

‘I’m not coming out with you two.’

‘- - what?’

He is not going to repeat himself. Davy edges towards the door, and puts a hand up as if that’ll be enough of a barricade.

‘If he doesn’t want to come, he doesn’t have to. He’s too young anyway.’

‘He’s got ID. We said we were all going together.’

Stevie has an odd idea about family, one Jim has never managed to catch the point of. Besides, he never said he was going with them. He hums a tune under his breath, something mindless that was on the radio half an hour ago. His hair looks good in peaks. Artfully messy, but tidy enough to be stylish. Jim’s very good at portraying a particular image.

‘ _Jimmy_.’

A glance to his left, then. Stevie is scowling, Davy is worried. Jim goes back to the mirror.

‘I’m not going to the pub. I don’t want to watch you fawning over women all night, and I don’t like your mates.’

There’s a dangerous silence. Or what would be dangerous, if Jim felt fear over anything. If it weren’t laughable.

‘You’re coming with us. You’re not going off to-‘

Jim straightens, and turns. Stevie falters, and Davy’s jaw goes tight. The air in the room changes; just as much as Jim lets it, allowing enough of himself to sneak out and turn the place black.

‘To what, Stevie?’

‘…to places where everyone’s dressed like _that_.’

‘Leave him, Steve. If he doesn’t w-‘

‘He’s coming with us. I told Da I wouldn’t let any of this shit go on while I was here.’

Stevie has always been stupid. Bull-headed, and unable to read a room. He feels the change in atmosphere, but he’ll ignore it because he has no instinct, just like he’s ignoring Davy’s hand closing around his wrist.

Jim licks his lower lip. ‘And what’re you going to do to stop it? I’m not going to any of your pubs. I’ve got my own places, and that’s where I’m going.’

‘You are _not_. A fucking _queer_.’

Davy visibly winces. And Jim laughs. It’s a genuine burst of joy, because yesssss thank you brother, for confirming just how pointless, blind, and utterly expendable you are.

‘I really am though, Stevie. I really, really am.’

His back hits the wall. Stevie’s breath smells of mint, clashing horribly with the Lynx radiating off his body and the plastic new-shirt smell off his clothes because he couldn’t be bothered to wash something to wear tonight.

‘You’re _not_.’

‘Am. You’re welcome to come with _me_ though, if you like. Who knows, you might learn how a real man does it.’

He catches Davy’s weak ‘ _Jesus’_ just before his head is slammed into the wall, his shoulders vibrating from the shove of his brother’s hands. They’re going to crease his shirt. It’s bunched up almost to his chest already, fistfuls of cloth caught up between Stevie’s broad fingers.

‘You’re a gobby little _twat_ , Jimmy. Shut up, and stop this. You’re only trying to get a rise out of us.’

‘If I were, it’s worked, hasn't it?’ His voice remains calm. This is so boring. They’ve been here before, and Stevie still manages to convince himself it’s all a cry for attention. Maybe this is the night he’ll realise just how much it isn’t. That’d cause the script to be rewritten, just a bit. It’s tempting. ‘I’m not coming with you, and you can’t make me.’

The hands do not let go. ‘Then none of us’ll go. We’ll get some cans in, and stay here.’

‘Not a chance. I’ve got plans.’

‘You’re _not_ -‘

His head hits the wall again. He wants to yawn. Stevie needs to hurry this up, because he really does have places to be. ‘I am. Get your hands off me.’

They don’t move. Davy takes a step forward because he knows what’s coming, but it’s too late. Jim bends his knee and jerks it forward, landing it in the meaty part of his brother’s thigh. Just off the main nerve point, but close enough to hint at making it numb.

‘ _Jim_.’

‘- little _bastard!’_

The fist swings out right on cue. Jim catches it on the slope of his nose, just below the eye. If he didn’t know it were coming, the nose would break; as it is, he turns his head in the direction of the punch so most of the force glances off. He yells anyway, puts his hand over his face and staggers to the side.

‘Grab him, Davy!’

‘What?’

Jim snatches his jacket with his free hand, and makes a dash for the door. Davy’s hands come up to take hold of him, but they never make the final move, just as Jim knew they wouldn’t. He runs past and down the stairs, holding in the need to laugh. The front door crashes shut behind him and he sprints off down the road, too fast for either of them to get near even if they were inclined to try.

He inspects his face twenty minutes later, in the public toilet at the town bus station. His nose is throbbing, and the skin is tender under his eye. It won’t start to bruise up for another half hour or so, but at least it didn’t land hard enough to keep the damage down on the bone. He needs it to show quickly, not stay under the skin for days.

He’s humming to himself as he pulls eyeliner out of his pocket, and works on finishing up his look. This is a work night, but he might just find time to enjoy himself as well. Stevie is  _such_ a dickhead, and there’s only two weeks left to mess with his head. He wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity, and regret it later. Life’s far too short for that.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: U2 - Bad


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tagging this with 'underage' simply to be on the safe side. Jim is legal by modern standards, and there was no age limit in early 1993 because being gay was still illegal in Ireland until June of that year. There is no explicit content in this chapter, but there is a pretty big age gap between two characters and a touch of non-con language, so be aware if that's not your thing.

 

 

 

 

_You gotta keep your shit together_

_With your feet on the ground_

_There ain’t no one gonna listen_

_If you haven’t made a sound_

 

 

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

 

The George looks like any other pub, with its green facade and black-framed windows. Jim lights a fag and nods at the bouncer inside the door, a bear in leather shorts whose name changes with the day of the week. In Jim’s head, at least. His real name is Paul.

‘Is he here?’

‘Through the back. Mind out, Jamie, he’s in a mood. You’re late.’

Jim rolls his eyes, and offers a cigarette. Paul tucks it behind his ear, hesitates, and adds, ‘if he doesn’t - - you can always come back and talk to me. I’ll get you a drink.’

Paul is pathetic, and bears are not to Jim’s taste unless he’s in a particular mood. _Jamie,_ however, looks him over, smiles sweetly, and leans in just a little. ‘I might.’

He leaves him with caught breath and a sense of hope, and makes his way through the main bar. Friday night, so it’s busy. Hot, and crowded, and lit by too-bright lights as if trying to make up for the lack of colour outside. Dublin’s gay scene consists of two dingy bars, and a couple of underground club nights. He’d hate it if he could be bothered by the politics of sexuality; as it is, he’s just bored by the same old faces. He hates gay clubs. He hates these people.

‘Jamie. Where the _hell_ have you been?’

‘ _Sorrrr-y_ , Frank. Didn’t realise I was on a schedule.’

‘I said nine.’

‘It is nine.'

It’s ten-fifteen. Jim is not spending longer with Frankie Kavanagh than he has to, and the fat old bastard is too desperate to complain for long. As evidenced by the way Jim leans over him to stub his cigarette out and Frankie visibly swallows, then shoves his right-hand-man in the ribs to get him to move out of the way. Jim sprawls next to him, and allows the hand on his knee.

‘What’ll you have to drink?’

‘Vodka. Are we staying here all night?’

‘Well now, well-‘ Frankie dithers, and shoots a look at his associate to get him to fetch Jim’s drink. At least none of them have to wait to be served. ‘-we could always-‘

‘I’m not going back to your house.’ Jim’s tone is bored, and he makes sure to check out the first hot young thing to walk past. ‘Not unless it’s _worth_ it this time.’

‘Last time was…it was - don’t be looking over there Jamie, there’s a drink coming, isn’t there? Last time was a mistake.’

Jim looks pointedly in the other direction. In the corner of his eye, he can see another of the Kavanagh employees watching him. A tall thing with dark hair, old enough to be his father but very, _very_ handsome. He slides his attention sideways, just enough to hold the gaze. He’s seen this guy watching him before. It’s interesting, for all sorts of reasons. 

He turns his face towards Frank, and smiles. ‘Have you got something for me?’

There’s a mutter, something along the lines of _you know what I’ve got for you_ , but Jim pretends not to hear and holds his hand out under the table. A couple of pills are dropped into it, and a small plastic bag of clumpy powder. Only half a gram, tonight. The old git’s getting stingy but Jamie looks pleased, closes his fist and leans in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

‘Be right back, honey.’

He bounces off in the direction of the gents, fully aware of the gaze on his backside all the way. Frank’s been salivating over him for months, and it is _so_ tedious. It’s time to wrap this game up, because he has no intention of finding himself forcibly bent over something. Frank’s been playing longer than he thought he would. He was expecting everything to go south weeks ago - but no, he’s still trailing along in Jamie’s wake, led entirely by the dick.

Jim locks the stall door, and rubs a bit of the coke on his gums to test the quality. Almost no numbness, so at least the shit’s good for once. The pills nearly go down the bog, but he changes his mind at the last minute and tucks them into the small pocket sewn into the inside of his waistband. He might feed one to Stevie for fun. That’d be _hilarious._ Then again, he doesn’t want the army to drug test him and refuse to let him start basic training. He wants him gone. Davy, then. Maybe. He thinks it over as he checks his eye in a mirror from his pocket. The bruising’s coming up, so he covers it with concealer. It’s not puffing too badly, and the light’s not good enough to give away details.

‘Jamie?’

He rolls his eyes and exits the stall, ignoring the call in favour of spiking his hair in the mirror over the sinks. He watches his own eyes and drags a deep breath in. Lets it out, and monitors the changes. From a neutral expression and bored gaze, to a dreamy smile and slightly unfocused stare; the odd rapid blink, and the deeply satisfied look of someone absorbing good coke into their blood. It’s not a look he has to try hard to find. He’s experienced it enough times for real. But there’s not a chance he’s letting his guard down around Frank Kavanagh, even if the man is thick as pigshit. He’s also rich, and influential, and _extremely_ violent when provoked. He has a lot of staff and, more importantly, a lot of very good contacts.

‘Are you coming?’

Mr Handsome is standing in the doorway, half a head taller than the other people crowded into the toilet. The noise and crush and heat of them rushes back in, and Jim blinks himself out of his head and into the room, making himself aware that he’s not alone. His reflection tilts its head in the mirror, and his own hazed eyes look down the line of men at the sinks. A couple of them have been watching him. One with clear interest, the other with something like worry. Jim blows a kiss at that one, and winks at the interested party as he leaves.

‘I’m not his property,’ he tells Handsome, standing a bit too close to him under the pretence of letting people in and out. ‘I can take as long as I want.’

‘I’m sure you’re not. Come on, now.’

‘What’s your name? You’ve never told me.’

‘It’s Peter. Step back, please. He’s watching.’

Peter doesn’t sound scared of his boss. He sounds professional, and polite. He has an air of authority about him, and on one hand it’s extremely attractive and on the other, it makes a warning siren blare quietly in the back of Jim’s teeming mind. He examines the stoic features in front of him, dragging his tongue slowly along his own lower lip.

‘And if he weren’t watching?’

I’ve got a son your age. Run along, now. Your drink’s arrived.’

Jamie pouts, and turns away. Jim makes a mental note to do some digging in the morning. Both of them arrive back at the table, along with their bodyguard. Peter sits neatly, and Jamie slouches. He makes sure his shoulder touches Frank’s, but doesn’t lean in to him. 

‘You’re spoiling me tonight, Frankie.’

‘It’s about time you spoiled me in return, lad.’

Jim picks up his vodka, pulls a face, and sips it. Someone’s watered it down, which is interesting. There’s no way Frank would order that. Frank makes him drink doubles, hoping he’ll get pliable enough to get friendly. Frank is boring, and predictable, and Jim has sparks in his blood tonight, a leg that won’t stop bouncing and a physical need to get some of this energy out before the whole thing goes up in flames. Thank God for drugs as an excuse. Frank will let him say or do anything, as long as Jim can blame it on being under the influence.

‘Maybe I will,’ he says, smiling again, lowering his eyelids to make himself look sultry and high. ‘If you keep being good to me.’

‘I always am. Too good. Do you want another drink?’

‘Yes, please.’

Frank’s arm lands around his shoulder. Three of his security team look away, as if checking for the presence of Garda - though Jim knows they're just uncomfortable with their boss's public displays - and Peter gets up to go the bar. He really is very tall. Jim has no preference for height over lack of it, muscle or not; he likes what he likes, and he likes the look of Peter. Sometimes he likes women, sometimes twinks, sometimes stuff that hurts, always things that take him out of his own head, if only for a few minutes. Peter looks like he could take him out of his head. Frank does not. Frank reminds him of every old man who has drooled over him in his life, and there have been more than a few. His arm is heavy, lots of muscle under the spread of middle-age, and his knuckles are scarred and misshapen, products of a youth spent bare-knuckle fighting underneath Dublin's dodgier pubs. Back in the day, Frankie Kavanagh would have been someone Jim might be glad to know. Thirty years on, he's still glad to know him but has no intention of spending even one night trapped under his heaving body. The breath too close to his ear is warm and wet, pulling too fast in anticipation. If he's not mistaken, even in the dim light, Frank's trousers are giving him away. Again, not for the first time, but _because_ it's not the first time Jim knows there'll be little chance of him avoiding what's in store unless he puts an end to this tonight.

‘I’m bored, Frank. I want to dance.’

‘I don’t dance. You sit here with me, Jamie.’

His fingers dig into Jim’s shoulder. Frank’s holding tighter than usual, and his other hand curls around the inside of his thigh, rubbing along the seam of his jeans and coming to rest a bare inch below his groin. Frank’s one of those old men who get off on making boys get off, which is the only reason this whole thing’s been going on so long. But Jim hardly ever lets him touch, and the frustration has been growing for a while.

‘How’d you like the pills? They making you feel good?’ Jim deigns to nod, and Frank’s voice drops lower. ‘I’ve got a lot more at home, Jamie. You can have as many as you want.’

Jim’s heel bounces on the floor, too fast even for the techno-pop mix thumping out of the DJ booth in the corner. Frank’s starting to trap him into the seat, and he doesn’t like that. He runs this show on _his_ terms, end of story. But when he tries to twist himself a bit of space, Frank just holds on tighter.

‘Tonight, yes? I’m running out of patience, lad. You’ll come back to mine.’

Paul was right, he _is_ in a mood. Jamie looks a tad concerned, but Jim just smiles in his mind and relaxes. No, he doesn’t like being mauled, but it’s going to get him what he wants so he’ll put up with it.

‘You’re hurting my shoulder.’

‘Sorry, sorry.’ But the hand doesn’t loosen. Jamie swallows, and tries to lean away. ‘C’mon. Tonight. We can go now if you like.’

‘I only just got here. Frank, get _off_. I’m high, I want to dance.’

Frank’s face turns a shade darker, even in the dim light. Before he can speak, a glass clinks on the table in front of them, and they both look up. Peter is standing, his fingertips touching lightly to the rim.

‘Your vodka, Jamie. And I got you another whiskey and water, sir.’

He doesn’t move back. His eyes are on the hand creasing Jim’s shirt with the pressure of the grip. Frank just stares up at him, but Jim makes sure to look tense, just a bit afraid, not enjoying himself. 

‘Let go of me, Frank.’

Peter doesn’t move. Jamie squirms in his seat. The rest of Frank’s people are studiously looking away, but that only makes the stillness in their corner more evident. A couple of guys on the next table turn their way, and it’s that which makes Frank pull back and grab for his drink. Jamie sighs with relief, and rubs his shoulder. Peter sits down.

‘You’re pushing me, boy. If you had more than half a brain, you’d know not to.’

Jim never breaks character. But comments like that are always tempting; always make a part of the persona fracture in his mind, and let his real self rise up through the cracks, screaming in rage. 

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles, and looks down at the floor. Frank glares at him, and waves his hand.

‘Go on and dance. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.’

‘I can’t dance on my own. Can I have Peter?’

‘Peter, dance with the boy.’

Peter's neutral expression says it all. Jim laughs in his head, because he seems far too serious to belong on a dance floor, let alone one belting out Kim Wilde. But he stands up and waits for Jim to bounce to his feet, before leading the way to a spot where Frank can see them at all times. Jim struts over, eyeing up every man on the way and all of them eyeing him back. They’ve seen him here before. None of them know his real name, and he has the advantage of not having gone to school in Dublin. There are no old friends or schoolmates to spread the name Moriarty in this city.

‘What are you playing at?’

Peter doesn’t move much, but he looks elegant doing it. Jim uses the crowded floor as an excuse to get close, though he makes sure not to touch. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The boys who let Frank play with them usually ask for more than you do. They’re always dressed to the nines and living on coke by now.’

‘And you’re disappointed I’m not?’

Jim puts his arms in the air and gyrates in a circle, letting the vibration of the music thrum up his body and move him where it will. Music makes everything better. Music is an escape he can’t do without, and he doesn’t get to dance with other people very often.

‘No.’ Peter has stepped up behind him. Jim can feel his hands hovering next to his waist, as if they’d like to touch but know they can’t. ‘Not disappointed. Curious.’

‘Then you should get to know me, and find out why I’m different.’

‘I already know.’

Interesting. Jim smiles over his shoulder, looking up at him and willing him to be right. 

‘He likes making boys helpless. You like making _him_ helpless, especially when he doesn’t realise what you’re doing.’ Oh, very good. Only a part of the picture, of course, but more than most people bother to see. ‘You need to be careful. If you don’t give him what he wants, he’ll take it.’

‘He wouldn’t do that.’

‘He would. I’ve seen it happen. You should go home, Jamie.’

Jim turns to face him. The music segues into Bananarama, and the floor begins to jump. Peter barely moves and now, nor does Jim. ‘I’m not going home. I don’t see why you care.’

‘I told you, I’ve a son your age.’

‘I don’t know if you’re trying to give me your straight credentials, or if you’re genuinely concerned. Did you warn off the other boys? The not-so-lucky ones?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you think I’ll listen.’

‘I think you want different things to them.’

Jim knows what happens to Frankie Kavanagh’s boys. A couple have disappeared; to London, goes the rumour, though there are other rumours too. Some end up in rehab, one turned to religion. He did his homework before getting into this.

‘I want a good time, Peter. That’s all. If you’re that concerned, why do you work for him?’

Peter doesn’t bother pretending he’ll reply to that. Jim knows why anyway, even without knowing much about this man. It doesn’t matter. He grins, and puts his hand on Peter’s leg, cupping the rise of his buttock, down on the side Frank won’t be able to see.

‘You could always make me a better offer.’

‘Hands off, kid. But do yourself a favour, and listen to me.’

Jim rolls his eyes, removes his hand and steps back. ‘No, I don’t think I will.’ 

He leaves Peter behind, and heads back to the bathroom; another advantage of appearing to use drugs is that no one bats an eye at anyone practically living in the toilets. The conversation disappears from his head, dismissed as irrelevant to what he’s really doing here. He has to wait for one of the stalls to open up, full as they are of people either getting high or getting off, and he leans on the wall next to two men with their hands in each other’s trousers, kissing like they’ll die if they don’t. He ignores them. He ignores everyone, even the hot twenty-something giving him the eye, and a boy called Duane who’s tried to chat him up here before. He thinks of tonight instead, and the feel of Peter's firm leg under his hand, and his summer plans, and Sherlock, and the meeting at the university on Monday. He thinks about asteroids, and the far reaches of space. Far preferable to this noise, and heat, and sweat. He’s spoken to men here who say they feel free in a gay bar, because ‘it’s nice to be ourselves, isn’t it?’ Jim never gets that, never understands why of all the things to feel trapped by, _that_ is one of them. 

He gets a stall eventually, and tries to avoid touching anything because the air smells like sex. The music from the main bar has changed to something with heavy bass, which masks the sound of him ripping a clean syringe from its packet. He sets fire to it, drops it in the bowl, and fills the thing with clear liquid from a vial. He’s careful, very careful, not to touch it. Once that's done, he grinds up some pills he brought with him, and adds them to the cocaine.

If he’s honest, the knowledge of what he’s going to do tonight sets him a little on edge. This isn’t his first rodeo, but the circumstances are different. He’s interested to see how it affects him. And even if it turns out the answer is ‘badly’ - he’ll still have what he wants, so it’ll be worth it. Jim’s not going to let a hint of distaste stand in the way of his goals. 

 

*

  

He gets into the back seat of the car, as requested, and promptly sits sideways with his knees drawn up to his chest. Frank takes one look and laughs, and says, ‘getting coy?’ But his mood has improved now they're outside, so he doesn’t try to touch. Jim leans against the headrest, and watches Dublin pass by the far window. He feels nothing towards this city, and he feels nothing towards England even though there is something of interest there. Sometimes he questions his choice in coming back, and choosing Trinity out of all the places that wanted him to study with them. But there are reasons, and men like Frank are ninety percent of them.

‘Want another pill?’

‘No, thanks. The first one hasn’t worn off yet.’

‘You only took one?’

He shrugs because yes, duh, that’s the obvious conclusion isn’t it? Frank shakes his head.

‘Why don’t you have the other? I want you to have a good time.’

‘If you can’t give me a good time without pills, you might as well stop the car now.’

The air thickens at once. Jamie looks defiant, but inside his head Jim winces a touch. It’s not that he forgets how violent Frank is and how he made his money, but it’s so hard to care when he’s as boring as this. It wouldn’t do to end up like one little twink who said the wrong thing to Frank, though; Jim tracked him down through Paul, and discovered he has a permanent limp thanks to getting too gobby at the wrong moment. 

‘Watch your mouth. It’s not as cute as it used to be.’

‘Sorry.’

He goes back to looking out of the window as they turn into a driveway. Frank runs his business through the north side, but lives in Ranelagh. His house is enormous, painted tasteful cream and set behind a high wall and wrought-iron gates. Pretending to be respectable is laughable, and makes Jim think even less of him. But it’s also funny to consider the wealth around here that’s been made legitimately, living next door to someone like Kavanagh, who ruins the upper-class fantasy being played out on every street. It serves them right. A reminder that you can pretend everything’s perfect, but it doesn’t stop the cancer worming its way inside.

Jamie stays still once they’ve stopped, so Peter has to get out from behind the wheel and open the back door for him. He steps out lightly, smiles up at him, and then Jim makes the mask fall into an expression of boredom and mild distaste. Frank’s men fan out of the second car and walk to the sides of the house, where they disappear into darkness. Jim lays the floor plan out in his mind; one side door and another at the back, all three entrances covered by cameras and alarms. A two-car garage behind the house, which he suspects has a room underneath but hasn’t yet been able to verify. The house itself is as gaudy inside as it’s tasteful outside, with Frank having the interior design skills of half a dead slug. Jim’s seen the lower floor in some detail, having wandered around it last time he was here. He’d suffered through an inept blowjob to gain the mental map, and the whole thing would have ended that night if Frank’s office had been downstairs. But it’s not, so Jamie had made Frank blow his load in his pants without touching him, got _so_  disappointed, laughed at him and flounced out. There is nothing to draw suspicion his way. He is just a kid, after all.

‘Upstairs.’

‘Can’t I have a drink first?’

‘There’s vodka up there. You can have as much as you like. Go on.’

Frank follows too close behind, breathing down his neck all the way. Jamie pauses, looks down and sees Peter in the entrance hall; tall, stoic, and with no expression on his face. He gives himself away by the way he can’t help watching and Jim considers, again, why someone who seems to care about Frank’s boys works for him at all. There are hundreds of kids up in Darndale, and places like it, who suffer worse fates thanks to the heroin trade Frank controls. Girls, children, families. Does he care about them?

‘To your right.’

Jim pulls his gaze back to Frank, smiles and resumes walking. At the edge of his vision, Peter steps away.

‘Aren’t you going to show me around? It’s a nice house.'

Frank makes an exasperated noise, and Jim stops just short of the top step as his arm is grasped and he’s forcibly swung ‘round. ‘You know why we’re here. Why would you want a tour?’

Jamie shifts his weight to one hip, ever the pushy little twink, and cocks his head to the side. ‘It’s called _foreplay_ , Frank. Seduction. Getting me in the mood.’

‘I don’t give a fuck if you’re in the mood. You’ve been amusing yourself long enough.’ Frank moves up so they’re sharing a step, and Jim would fall back if there weren’t that grip on his arm. ‘It’s time for you to give what you’ve been promising. You’ve had your fun. It’s my turn.’

Jamie swallows nervously. Jim, inside his mind, rolls his eyes and thinks of more interesting things.  

‘Fine. I’m here, aren’t I? You don’t have to threaten.’

‘So you’re going to behave?’ Frank pushes closer, pulls Jamie in so he’s squashed against his belly. The other hand slides around to grasp his backside. His breath smells of whiskey; the sweetness of alcohol soured in his mouth, and seeping out of his pores. It’s hard to be sure, given the difference in their sizes, but Jim’s pretty sure Frank’s hard already and trying not to rub into his leg. ‘You’re going to bend over for me tonight.’

This is disgusting. But Jamie doesn’t squirm away the way Jim wants to. He smiles, and nods, and runs his fingertip down Frank’s cheek. ‘Show me around. Get me a drink. Get high with me, and you can do whatever you want.’

For a long moment, it looks like Frank might refuse. But he’s always been a sucker for Jamie being sweet with him. Jim knows that what he really wants, this big fat gangster, is to be forced to his knees by a pretty young thing, and made to beg for his pleasure from a boy smiling at him just like this. Frank’s too wrapped up in self-image to let himself ask for it and alas, now it’s too late. He releases Jamie’s arm and backs off enough to let him make the top of the stairs. 

‘It’s all bedrooms, apart from my office. Nothing to see. Come on.’

Frank’s room is large, and tacky. There’s a mirror on the ceiling over the bed, and framed pictures of sports cars on the walls. It looks like a yuppie pad from the 1980s, with zig-zag black and white wallpaper, and red trim on the furniture. Jim internally winces. When he’s rich, he’ll do better than this. So much better.

‘Here you go.’

Vodka. He takes a sip, giving the appearance of anticipation in the way he eyes the bed, and examines the room. There’s a huge walk-in wardrobe, and the door next to it is the bathroom. Which means the other door, with all the locks on it, will be to the office.  

‘Jamie.’

Frank is behind him. Frank’s hands are on his hips, and….now there’s one between his legs. He drinks more, and closes his eyes at the sensation of lips on his neck. Jamie is used to this, but Jim...Jim hates people who are weak because of sex. Mostly because they’re dull enough to let him play them, but sometimes for more obvious reasons. Frank is not attractive. He’s a pathetic old paedo, who has to pay for this and hasn’t even got the guts to admit to the things he really wants. Jim doesn’t care about using his body to get access to important stuff; he has no romantic notions, he is bored by these petty concerns of the flesh unless he needs a release, or there’s someone who can engage him in other ways. But sex is the easiest way to get past someone’s defences, so he uses it when he has to. 

‘Do a line with me, Frank.’

‘Is that your idea of foreplay?’

‘It’s what I want. And then you can have what you want.’

He slips free of a loosened grasp, and takes out the coke. Frank is impatient behind his indulgent smile, as he hands a mirror over. Jim cuts two fat lines and then rolls up a fiver, offering it over with a smile of his own.

‘You first. The pills are still working for me. I want to take this right before you fuck me.’

Frank’s impatience melts away when he hears that. Jim gets up as he takes the coke, runs a hand along his shoulders and into his thinning hair. The house is silent, no sign of security. They could be existing in a world of their own, if Jim weren’t behind Jamie’s pliant eyes, hating this more with every passing second.

‘Come on.’

Frank smiles and allows himself to be drawn towards the bed. His eyelids droop a little as the coke sinks through his mucous membranes, and starts pumping through his system. Jim pushes him down to sit on mattress and slides his hands to his chest, straddling his legs so he can watch his expression. Frank’s hands circle his waist and he chuckles, pulling them together. Jamie grinds down, his fingernails writing light lines down Frank's flabby neck.

‘Feel good, Frankie?’

‘Very nice. Now take your clothes off. Slowly.’

Jamie is good at the teasing strip. He lets his jacket drop backwards, and catches it in one hand as it slithers towards the floor, lying it on the bed next to them. Frank’s eyes are fixed on his chest, so he starts at the top of his shirt, pushing each button through its hole with sensuous fingers, making sure not to rush. By the time two are open, Frank is licking his lips and there’s an insistent pressure against the inside of Jamie’s thigh. He lunges forward to put his mouth on the exposed skin; Jim suppresses the shudder, counting seconds in his head. By the time the fourth button is released, Frank’s eyelids are almost closed and his head leans heavily forward, as though his neck can’t keep it up. Jim smiles and opens his shirt, revealing a sight Frank will never now get to see. He puts his hand on the man’s forehead, shoves, and watches him fall back to the mattress.

‘Idiot.’

If Frank hears, he’s too far gone to reply. Jim regards him for a moment, head tilted as he watches him breathe. Then he tucks one side of his shirt in, rips a button off – which he puts in his pocket – and re-fastens one in the middle to give himself a dishevelled look. He pulls the syringe from his jacket, and doesn’t allow himself any time to think. The point goes into Frank’s skull, a tiny mark where the hair will hide it. His hand is steady as the thing empties. He thinks of nothing at all; feels nothing at all knowing that Frank’s drugged sleep is about to become permanent. He just takes the keys from his pocket, and leaves him there to get on with dying. Because this is what it’s all been about; the office, with the desk and the account books, the ledger with every one of his contacts in it. Frank is - was - too old to get along with computers, which is why this had to be done in person. There’s an outer door to the office, but with the amount of staff around the house it was always safer to get in through the bedroom. Jim is suppressing the need to hum _Ode to Joy_ under his breath as he swings the door open, and mentally hits pay dirt. He’s pretty damn sure he wouldn’t have felt this good if he was just here for a shag.

He finds what he’s looking for locked in the bottom drawer of the desk. He’s not interested in the safe, unless this ledger had been inside. He doesn’t care about the cash and drugs that are almost definitely in there. Jim spent months playing this role just so he could read a book.

‘Hush.’

It’s a distracted mutter thrown in the direction of the door, through which choking noises can be heard. Jim turns a page…then another, and another, and another. A scan with his eyes, and it’s absorbed. He takes a second at the end of every page to mentally review and check it’s all there.

And when he’s done, he runs through the whole lot in his mind. Satisfied, he wipes the book clean, replaces it, locks up, and that’s it. With the good bit, at least; he still has Frankie to deal with.

‘Are you finished?’

The corpse gives no reply. Jim tilts his head again, and looks at it as he absentmindedly cleans away the make-up concealing his bruised eye. It’s not the same as when he did it to Carl. Carl looked almost blue in places, like his skin was too young and thin to hide the poisoned blood under the surface. Maybe the water washed away any pretence of normality. He’d looked like a wax doll. Tiny, and silent; floppy limbs, hair plastered to his skull. It had felt good. It had made the world tilt on its axis and fill him with heat. He hadn’t known whether he was going to throw up or get turned on; neither, as it happened, and he still can’t describe the sensation he'd felt that day, even though he recalls it often.

This, though, is nothing. This is an old man with saliva and foam on his chin, and an acrid smell that suggests he threw up enough to help him along. Jim stares at him, then mentally shrugs. There’ll be time for analysis later. Right now he has to paint a picture; tell a story and make it real. 

He yanks Frankie’s clothes open. Shirt, trousers, underwear. Shoes off. He knocks the remaining line of coke onto the carpet, and walks it in. The syringe is tucked back into his jacket, and the jacket tossed into a heap on the floor, along with his own shoes and socks. He uses one of Frank’s limp hands to mess his hair up. There. Done.

A deep breath. The air tastes of something indefinable, even though he’s felt it on his tongue before. It reminds him of Belfast, even though there’s no metal to breathe in. That’s what he remembers of that night; the taste of copper, or…something. It wasn’t all blood. It doesn’t matter. The memory makes his brain fly free of restraint and he lets himself go, spiralling up and up to the sky. It’s nothing to let Jamie’s panic take over, it’s the easiest thing in the world. Jim sits back, satisfied, as the persona runs to the door and flings it open.

‘Help! Peter! _Help!_ ’

His scream pierces the silence. Footsteps thunder up the stairs. Three men shoulder him to the side as they race into the bedroom, but Peter stops in front of him and puts a hand on his arm. He looks through the door to the bed, then back. Jamie has wet eyes, and is close to hyperventilating but all Peter does is look, even when a gruff voice calls out from inside.

‘He’s dead. Peter? He’s-‘

‘I heard you. Call his doctor anyway.’

One of the men rushes out to the phone. Jim watches Peter watching him. Jamie can’t breathe. He heaves in great lungfuls of air but can’t get them back out. Everything is shaking, and he can’t unfocus his eyes from the man in front of him.

Peter bends down. He’s half a foot taller, and has quite a way to come to reach his ear. Jim has time to register his cologne, his body language, his mood; the creases in his shirt and the way the middle finger of his right hand has been broken three times.

But that’s irrelevant for now. Right now, all that matters is his reaction.

‘Oh, Jamie,’ he says, a whisper that’s almost sad. ‘What did you _do?_ ’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Scissor Sisters - Filthy/Gorgeous.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with [beautiful, beautiful art](http://summeringminor.tumblr.com/post/160493199478/jamlocked-my-hand-slipped-yall-should-go-read). Thank you so much, [Vivian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/works)! I absolutely love it. <333

 

 

 

_Everybody points their hand at me_

_I know I'm just a picture_

_Of what I should've been_

 

  

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

The music on the car radio is a soft dirge, floating in a blues key. A mourning song, but for what? Jim certainly isn’t going to mourn Frankie Kavanagh, but his energy has drained away all the same. This is not the excitement of Carl, or the madness of Belfast. He watches Dublin drift past his eyes, grey and broken in the early dawn, bereft of all colour. Nothing moves at 4am. No one normal is out at this hour. 

‘You’re going to have to tell me where you live.’

Jim huddles into the coat he’s been given. It’s going to be a blazing hot day, but he can’t feel his fingers. He can’t stop shivering. Peter had to forcibly uncurl him to get the seat belt on. It was good timing really; everyone assumes he’s in shock, which adds credibility to his claim that he had nothing to do with Frank’s death. But it’s not shock. He doesn’t know what it is, beyond a new example of the way in which he’s _wrong_. 

‘Jamie. I can’t drive you home unless you tell me where we’re going.’

He’ll figure it out later. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he gives a theatrical yawn. There’s always that inner voice, watching events with bored eyes, telling him to stop being so stupid, stop being a child, stop, just stop, step back and _think_. He argues with it a lot, because sometimes it feels great to go mad. The rest of the time he hates it, because he knows it’s right.

‘You can drop me anywhere. I don’t need you to drive me.’

Peter glances into the back seat. ‘Well, I’m going to. You look like shit. How many drugs did he give you?’

‘I don’t know. A lot.’

‘Do you think your nose is broken?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘You should have run for it when he hit you.’

Jim snorts quietly, without taking his gaze from the window. ‘And you’d have let me out, would you? He’s your boss, and you’ve never stopped him doing this to people before. You’d have blocked the door, and let him do what he wanted.’

Peter’s silence says it all. Jim lets it go because he doesn’t care, and it’s boring. Also, it never happened. ‘Am I to expect the police later?’

He knows the answer already. He always knows the answer already.

‘Doubtful. It looks like natural causes, so there’s no reason to involve you. You said he took coke. No need to make the Garda ask more questions than we want them to.’

One advantage of murdering a career criminal is that no one wants questions afterwards. His personal doctor came to him, found him dead, called the coroner. No need for police until the hospital, where they’ll be now, checking there’s no suspicious circumstances. The coroner might even be paid off, but if he isn’t he still won’t detect anything but cocaine cut with sleeping pills and whatever other shit was in there to start off with. Botulinum isn’t easy to spot, after all. There’s a reason it’s his poison of choice. 

He just nods, and closes his eyes. A great wave of fatigue and disgust washes through his blood. He wants a bath, and sleep. He’d love to fucking sleep. 

‘Let me out at the corner.’

‘Let me take you home.’

‘No. I don’t want you knowing where I live.’

‘I’m not sending the police after you, Jamie. Even if you did it, I wouldn’t. He wasn’t a nice man.’

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Well then.’

He remembers he was planning to look into Peter this morning. That’s harder on a Saturday, what with offices being closed and his brothers around to ask questions about what he does on his computer. It can wait until Monday, probably.

‘Do you want to fuck me, Peter?’

He opens his eyes, but doesn’t turn his head. After a while, he adds, ‘you can take me home if you come inside, and fuck me.’

The silence goes on, and on. Jim amuses himself by imagining Stevie’s face if he got woken up by the sound of his faggot little brother taking a dick in the room next door. _Loudly_ taking a dick. He’d probably burst in and attempt to knock them both out. That’d be funny. He’s not sure he wants it even if Peter says yes - which he knows he’s not going to -  but he does want to stop feeling like this. Like there’s nothing in him. Like nothing happened, and nothing’s real. Like the world is a terrible dream.

‘Pull over at the next corner.’

He can feel the hesitation from the driver’s seat, but the car slows and then draws to a halt. Jim decides he likes the coat, so doesn’t take it off. He just slides out of the car and then leans down, noting Peter’s eyes facing strictly forward.

‘If you change your mind, come back to the pub next Friday. Otherwise, see you never.’

He shuts the door and walks off, lighting a cigarette. They’d been driving in the opposite direction of his house, and he’s got a three-mile walk ahead of him. A chance to clear his head, and maybe find himself again by the time he gets home. He can’t be odd in front of his brothers. He can’t be _wrong_. People will forget anything, but not that. 

 

 

*

 

 

_Dublin. 1981._

 

 

Ma’s eyes are big, and brown, and swimming with tears. But for a good reason today, he thinks. She’s smiling as she crouches down and straightens his tie, making it snug to his crisp new collar but not too tight.

‘There, now. My handsome boy. All grown up.’

Is he grown up? Stevie and Davy are older than him, and they’re still children. Jimmy ponders this as she smooths his hair down, and comes to the conclusion that she’s probably right. He knows more than they do, and he doesn’t play with their toys. He can read and write perfectly, better than either of them. And numbers…he hasn’t yet found the right word for what numbers are like. They march in front of his eyes in perfect, sensible lines, until he pokes one with a thought. Then they swirl together, rising, mixing, fitting together, splitting in two, in fractions, splintering and coming back together as different numbers, _better_ numbers, symbols, lines, formulas, equations. They settle back down at the bottom of his mind, nestling in like old friends, ordering the world into something that makes sense.

He tried to explain this to Davy once, and was surprised - and then not surprised - to discover he didn’t know what he was talking about. So he tried to explain it to Ma, so she’d have an answer to the question she always asks ( _where are you, Jimmy?),_ when he disappears behind his eyes to stand in the middle of the tornado’s whirl. But she didn’t understand either, and just looked worried. There’s no point trying to make Da or Stevie understand, he gets that on a level that doesn’t require analysis. So maybe…a teacher. They know things. And now he’s starting school, so he’ll be able to talk to them about it. Maybe even someone his own age. Davy and Stevie have friends, that’s what happens when you go to school; you get friends. He’s not a hundred per cent sure what you do with them if you don’t play football or enjoy plastic cars, but he’s willing to learn. He is quietly excited about it.

‘There y’are. You all ready?’ Jimmy nods at his Da, who actually looks happy for once. He smiles up at him, and gets one in return, along with a large hand that ruffles up the hair his mother has just painstakingly tidied down. ‘Look at you. Very smart. You going to be a good boy now, y’hear? You’ll do grand.’

He nods again. Yes, he’ll be a good boy. He’ll do his work, and listen to the teacher. He’ll make friends. 

‘G’on, then. The other two’ll walk you in.’ Da sticks his head through the living room door to bellow through to the kitchen. ‘Get a move on! You’re not bein’ late first day!’

Ma is back to sorting his hair out. He lets her, though there’s a growing impatience to be gone. School is something _new_ , and he’s been looking forward to it since the half-day he went to before the summer holidays. Everything was very colourful and bright, and there was a paint-and-glue smell he’d found exciting. There was a piano at the back of the hall, and a playground and field full of kids running about, yelling excitedly in the sun. It was a change from the quiet days at home with Ma, reading books while she cooked and cleaned. Those days are gone. She’s going back to work now, and he’s going to be one of those children running on the grass, laughing under a blue sky.

‘Come on, thicko.’ Stevie gives him a shove in the hallway, nearly pushing him into the wall. ‘I wanna go to the shop before the bell.’

Ma tuts under her breath. ‘You’re not buying crisps at this time of the morning, Steven. You can get some after. There’s a biscuit in your lunch box.’

Stevie rolls his eyes and slams out of the front door. Davy nods his head to let him out first, so he walks up the path to the gate, and looks back to see Ma and Da standing next to each other, arms around each other’s waists, looking…nice. What’s the word? _Fond._ Jimmy waves, and Ma waves back. Da nods at him. Then Davy gives his shoulder a little push, and they round the corner and are on their own.

‘I’m off. See you pair o’clackers later.’

Stevie hikes his bag up his on his shoulders and takes off at a run, yelling at a group of his mates further on down the road. Jimmy watches him go then glances at Davy, who’s looking at two other boys a bit behind them on the other side. 

‘What’re clackers?’

‘Balls.’

‘Oh.’

Well. Okay. He contemplates this for a minute, then dismisses it as stupid and points forward. ‘He’s going into the shop.’

‘So?’

‘Ma said no crisps.’

‘Well, Ma’s not here, is she? Look, will you be alright on your own for a minute? I want to get my sticker album back off Patrick.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know the way, don’t you? Jus’ keep going, I’ll be back before we get there.’

He watches Davy run off across the road, but keeps going forward. He knows where the school is, everyone does. He turns right at the shop, and can see the sign outside the gate a few hundred yards up ahead. There’s a group of bigger kids blocking the pavement, and he steps around them, trying not to walk into the road to get past. He doesn’t think anything of it until he hears his name muttered, and looks up into faces staring down at him. A couple of the girls giggle. He’s not sure why.

‘Your Stevie’s brother, aren’ you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck off, then.’

Jimmy feels himself blink, and registers surprise. Then that the collective height of this group of children is 26.1428 feet, split between six, one girl being the outlier at 4.5 feet, 140 centimetres, allowing for the height of her shoes-

‘What’re you staring at? He said fuck off.’

‘Who’s fucking off?’ Stevie arrives out of the shop, shoving salt and vinegar crisps into his mouth. ‘Oh, him. Yeah. Piss off, Jimmy.’

His friends laugh, and Jimmy feels his face go red. Despite having been told to piss off - which is nothing new with Stevie - it’s the group that moves on, leaving him wondering what he did wrong. Nothing, he thinks. He’s still thinking this two minutes later when Davy arrives at his shoulder.

‘Why are you just standing there? We’ll be late.’

‘Sorry.’

He’s silent as they walk up the road. Then; ‘haven’t you got friends to walk with?’

‘Yeah. But I told Ma I’d make sure you got in all right today.’

‘Oh.’ 

The road is filling up with kids now, pouring in from side streets off the estate, kicking balls around in the road and making cars honk at them to clear the way. These are full of kids from further away. Richer kids, who have parents that drive them to school. He remembers Davy saying the estate kids hate them, so he thinks he’ll probably just stay away from them. He’s an estate kid. 

‘You’ll have your own pals to come in with. Look, see? There’s Eileen’s little brother. He’s starting too. He’ll be in your class.’

Jimmy looks over at a boy as small as he is, clutching his mother’s hand. Blond hair, and glasses, and pale blue eyes. He looks terrified, which is a bit weird, but okay. Why not? They could be friends.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Niall.’

‘Niall. All right.'

The first bell is ringing. Davy swears, and pushes them into the crowd heading into the playground. ‘That means two minutes until we line up. See over there by the bike rack? There’s a yellow circle on the ground. That’s where your class goes. Alright, see you later.’

And he’s gone. Jimmy shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and looks around. It looks different from when he was here in June. The sun’s still out, but it’s light rather than the deep yellow it had been then. The sky is more grey than blue. There’s a nip in the September air, promising an early winter. The children are still running about and yelling, but it doesn’t feel joyous now, it feels like they’re screaming. Just a bit. He flicks his eyes left and right, taking it all in, wondering which of these people are going to be his friends.

Then he goes to stand on the yellow circle, because the bell should ring in exactly fourteen-point-two seconds, and he’s going to be ready. He wants to talk to the teacher. He wants to meet someone who knows what it’s like to be him.

 

 

*

 

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

Davy’s curled up in an armchair in the living room. Their grandad used to sit in that chair, smoking his pipe with his feet up, watching the snooker. The material is bobbled with age and it still smells faintly of the fruity tobacco he liked. Continued to like, even when it became clear that fruity tobacco was murdering him from the inside out. Jim tilts his head to watch his brother sleep. His breathing is rough, and he’s pale. There’s a fine patina of sweat on his forehead, and he smells like Guinness. His shirt says they went to a club, his shoes say at least one person was sick. The red flush on the one cheek Jim can see says that the throat infection is worse, and that Davy should be in bed rather than waiting up for him. Logically, that is. Jim feels nothing at the sight, and is aware that he’ll probably feel nothing for a few days yet.

He fetches a glass of water and some paracetamol from the kitchen. He’s got some pills upstairs that would no doubt help, but Davy won’t take anything not prescribed by a doctor. He’s weird that way.

‘Davy. Oi, _Davy_.’ He kicks the base of the chair, and waits while his brother blinks awake. ‘Take the pills, and go to bed.’

‘…time izzit?’

‘Five, almost.’

‘-the fuck have you been, Jimmy?’

He shrugs, and lights another cigarette. His fingers respond as they should, sharp and alert, but they still don’t feel like they belong to him. He’s been walking three feet above his own body all the way home.

‘Go to bed.’

‘Stevie’s got a girl up there.’

‘So? You don’t share a room. Have you been to a doctor?’

‘Yes. Where did you go?’

‘Out. I told you. Don’t make me repeat the obvious, it’s boring.’

‘You think everything’s boring.’

‘Because it is.’

It isn’t quite true. There are things he’s very interested in indeed. It makes him wonder what Sherlock Holmes is doing at 5am on a Saturday morning. He hopes he’s not asleep. That would be _rubbish_. 

‘He’s still angry at you. He was in a mood all night. I thought he was going to get arrested, ‘cos he nearly started a fight.’

Jim shrugs. It’s not his problem what Stevie does. ‘I don’t suppose you called them this time?’

‘There’s no point, is there? What’re they going to do about it? It’s not fair to upset Mam like that.’

Not fair to upset Mam by being queer? Or not fair to upset her by telling her about it? Both, probably. It’s not important any more; no one’s going to change in this family, and he has no interest in trying to make it happen. ‘I’m going to bed. If you see him before I do, tell him not to bother breaking into my room and yelling at me. I’m not interested.’

‘Like either of you’ll listen to me.’

Also true. Jim fetches a glass of water and heads up the stairs, blocking out the rhythmic grunts coming from Stevie’s room, turning the _thud thud thud_ of headboard against wall into a drum beat, a string of numbers, music his brain dances a melody over. It makes him want to go back down to the piano, but the neighbours will only come to complain again. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, noting the bruise is now fully formed under his eye, almost elegant in the way it curves over the line of his cheekbone. His nose hurts when he thinks about it, so he doesn’t. He finds some pyjama trousers instead - because there’s no way Stevie _won’t_ burst into his room later, and being found naked has more mileage in other scenarios - and rolls himself into bed.

Frank Kavanagh’s hands circle his waist at once. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the thick cotton of his shirt under his hands, and the smell, that _smell_ , of sour whiskey on his breath. He thinks of the names in the ledger to distract himself, and what he’s going to do with them. But Frank refuses to go away, and Jim thinks that’s probably weird, isn’t it? That Frank alive bothers him more than Frank dead. The corpse is a nothing memory, dead and already fading, as inconsequential as leaves falling off a tree. There are never any nightmares of dead things. Just ones still moving, waiting to be made to stop. Sometimes he thinks he should find other ways to make everything go quiet, but why should he? He started on this road a long time ago, and he’s never felt any desire to step off.

 

 

*

 

 

_Dublin. 1981._

 

 

His shoes, no longer shiny, lie discarded in the middle of the floor. Jimmy sits facing the solar system, tears streaming down his cheeks, vibrating with the effort of keeping his body from being wracked with sobs. He wants to howl, but that’ll only make them come near him. He doesn’t want anyone to come near him, ever. The tears will stop eventually. They always do. But they won’t stop now and it _hurts._ His throat aches with the pressure inside, his eyes are sore, his head is one big, red, throb. 

There are voices downstairs. Pans clanking and water running in the kitchen, the TV playing kid’s after-school programs, the faint whizz of hot air every time Ma opens the oven. A car in the drive, the metallic _click-thud_ as the door shuts and the key turns in the lock. Da walking in, Davy saying something in return to his usual gruff greeting to the family. And a question, probably asking where Stevie’s got to, and the usual answer of _football_. Normal things. Things that happen every single day. Jimmy curls in on himself, trying to make the tears stop, choking for breath. He’s all grown up, Ma said so. It shouldn’t hurt any more. He stares at Pluto, out there on its own, hanging in the empty silence of space. Nine planets, rotating at different speeds, suspended in _nothing_. There is no air, no sound, no up, no down. A perfect vacuum, where nothing hurts.

Eventually, there are light feet on the stairs and Davy pushes the door open with his schoolbag in his hands. Jimmy can’t uncurl his fists fast enough to start wiping his face clean, and he can’t unbend his body from the pain. The pressure of another person, even one standing in silence, is too much; he bends away from the weight of the stare, wanting to scream and kick and force him to go away.

Davy opens his mouth. Jimmy knows what’s coming, and hisses, ‘ _no_ ’ from between quivering lips. Davy’s teeth click shut.

‘What’s the matter?’

He shakes his head. There’s no point trying to explain. They won’t get it. Davy should just go away; he doesn’t though, he sits on the bed and lets his bag slither to the floor. 

‘Jimmy, what’s up? Didn’ you like it?’

He shakes his head again. A sentence bursts up from the seething red in his mind, and chokes its way out of his mouth. ‘Tried to…the teacher. The numbers.’

Silence. Another sob bursts out, and he puts his hands over his ears, trying to make it _stop_. In the back of his mind a cool space opens up, and tells him he’s being a baby. He fights his way towards it, but a great wave of agony rises up in front of him, then pushes him under, flooring him with the weight of anger. 

‘You tried to tell her you’re good at numbers?’

More than that. He tried to explain the way they move and fit together, and become something else and string together and swirl like magic; how everything is numbers, weight and height and lines and it all makes _sense_ , but no one else seems to _see._ But all he does is nod, and curl up inside when he hears Davy’s sigh of resignation.

‘What did she say?’

She had nodded, and smiled, and told him it was time to paint a picture. Maybe he’d like to paint his house? He had to make sure and wear an apron, because his Mammy wouldn’t like paint on his new uniform, would she. 

Davy fidgets in place. ‘It’s nearly dinner time. Ma’s doing fish fingers.’

The idea of anything going inside him is awful. He feels sick. He is a ball, complete in himself, nothing more can fit within. He should be floating in the air, but is all too conscious of the blanket tangled in his legs, and the soft give of the mattress under his backside. Davy smells of cooking, and the arid school-smell clinging to both their clothes.

‘C’mon, Jimmy. Ma says we have to get changed, and come down. You’re just tired.’

But he doesn’t feel tired. He couldn’t sleep if his life depended on it. He’d need to stop crying first, but there are no end to these tears.

‘Did you make friends with Niall?’

He lashes out without thinking, his small fist catching Davy just above the line of his jaw. They both cry out, Davy out of shock and he from the burst of pain that flicks through his fingers. 

‘Ma. Ma! He hit me, Jimmy hit me!’

Davy is gone. Jimmy sucks on his knuckle, keening quietly. No, he had not made friends with Niall. He’d told him he was going to talk to the teacher about numbers, and Niall had looked at him as though he were speaking another language and then gone back to bashing plastic shapes together on the building table. He’d wet himself later, one of three kids to have accidents after lunch. Jimmy had stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by yelling and playing and paint and bricks, and not understood what he was doing there. It was all wrong. He didn’t know it was going to be like that.

‘James! Did you hit your brother?’

He rolls to his side, and puts his arms over his head. The noise thumping up the stairs is Da, and he’ll have his belt. Ma steps aside to let the thunder through, and Jimmy makes no effort to defend himself. He did hit Davy, yes. He did not make any friends. The teacher did not understand. And, weirdly, the leather snapping into his flesh is not so bad. He’s howling after three strokes, but it’s okay after that. His head stops hurting, and the tears find an off switch. The pain has somewhere else to go.

‘No dinner! You stay up here.’

‘Frank, let him eat, he’s been at-‘

‘ _No_. Brothers don’t hit each other. He stays up here.’

Ma is pushed from the room, still protesting. The light flicks off, and the door slams shut. Jimmy lies on his bed, spent. He’ll stay up here. God, he’s happy to stay up here.

 

 

*

 

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

Jim stares at the wall. Sleep, again, will not come. He wonders to himself - something that rarely happens, because there is so little he doesn’t understand - but this morning, he wonders. That, if Davy called their parents and by some twist of space and time, their Dad were to walk in here with his belt and hit him, and hit him, and hit him…maybe then he’d feel normal again. He might be able to sleep if someone did that. Of course, if someone tried he might just kill them, because none of these wankers deserve to lay a hand on Jim Moriarty. But it might take him out of his head for a few seconds, at least.

He rolls to his back. Davy went to bed an hour ago. Stevie finished with his girl not long after, and Jim is thankful she won’t be staying any longer and they won’t have to put up with her over breakfast. Stevie walks her downstairs, and waits with her until the taxi comes. Jim doesn’t move as the front door slams shut. He counts the lines of the paint swirls in the ceiling, the way he always does when he’s in here. There are still three thousand, six hundred and forty-seven of them.

His door creaks open. Dawn falls across the landing, and paints Stevie black. He lights a cigarette, and walks in. Jim continues to not move, even when Stevie comes up to his bed and just stands there, looking down at him, smoking curling from his hand. This is the bit where he’s told to stop trying to get attention, and reminded that he’s had their parents running after him since the day he was born, and he’s the one who doesn’t fit in, and he should stop being a twat and grow up, et cetera et cetera, ad nauseam. 

But Stevie doesn’t say any of those things. Maybe it’s the post-coital haze, or maybe someone told him not to. All he does is lean down, ruffle his hair, and say, ‘you’re still my brother, Jimmy.’

Jim blinks as he leaves. That…was something new. Stevie has gone off-script. Jim doesn’t care for the sentiment, but he will give kudos to anyone who surprises him and even more to Stevie, whom he didn’t think capable.

He rolls back to his side, and stares at the wall. So, he’s still his brother. Despite being queer, Stevie? You’ll be a brother despite this sick flaw? He’s not sure if he’s supposed to feel grateful, or what, but he doesn’t. It wouldn’t be true to say he feels nothing, but not by much; the sentiment, whatever it means, is not important. It just means there won’t be a row later, which is good.

He lets it go, and closes his eyes. The lids feel heavy now, and he doesn’t fight them. His last thought is one he’s considered before; that, of all the gangsters in Dublin, he targeted the one with the same name as his father. By choice? By chance? Even he’s not sure now, but it doesn’t matter. That stage of the game is over, and now on to the next. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist available [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP). It'll be updated with one song per chapter.
> 
> Song: Gary Moore - Jumping at Shadows


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

_I feel something so right_

_Doing the wrong thing_

_I feel something so wrong_

_Doing the right thing_

_I couldn't lie, couldn't lie, couldn't lie_

_Everything that kills me makes me feel alive_

 

 

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

Saturday night is endless, hot, sticky, unbearable in the cramped box of his bedroom. He bends over the desk for hours without pause, his right cheek burning from the heat of the lamp leaning too close. Sweat trickles down his temples, disappearing into the sideburns that need cutting, beading on his top lip and threatening to drip over the circuit boards he can’t leave alone. Bass thumps from a student house across the road, cars full of drunk lads drive by, yelling out of windows at girls, or just to fling their voices into the night. Stevie’s out there somewhere, contaminating the world with his nothing. Davy’s ill in bed, and Jim is alone; the house an oasis of silence, blazing with heat in the darkness before a summer’s dawn. Frank Kavanagh no longer exists, his face a blank, his corpse disappeared. There is only the wire in Jim’s hand and the numbers in his head, spinning, spinning, tumbling into a black void where thought is the only thing that matters, watching the product of it taking shape under his hands. The brain of a bomb, its deadly centre, tailored to nestle beneath skin of Semtex and plastic. 

He falls when the sun is high on Sunday morning, head pounding, dry to the bone, folding onto his bed with starlight behind his eyes. This is what it takes to sleep, on days the world is not enough to hold him.

 

*

 

‘Feeling better? You don’t look good.’

‘I’m all right. Can’t call in sick my first day back.’

‘They’ll get it. It’s not like you’re faking.’

‘Unless they see it, they won’t believe it.’

Jim pauses on the stairs, listening to the conversation drifting out from the kitchen. The place smells of bacon and scrambled eggs. His stomach twists feebly, empty for days. He could eat now, but he doesn’t want to go in there. He sits down, and listens.

‘What’re you on with today?’

There comes the click of a lighter and a drag of air. He envisions Stevie stretching, bending his back over the chair with his arms over his head, the way he always does. Stevie takes up so much space.

‘Nothing much. I’m gonna cut the grass, then meeting Mark Kennedy later. You remember him?’

‘The year below you in school? Broke his leg in the semi-final?’

‘That’s him. He’s got a garage down in Dun Laoghaire. He said I could come down and have a look, and he’d drive me back up tonight for a few jars.’

‘Didn’t he marry-‘

‘Saoirse, yeah.’

There’s a pause that feels contemplative. Jim frowns. Who’s Saoirse, and why does it matter who she married?

‘Call the doctor. We’ll pick you up from work, and take you over. Mark won’t mind.’

‘But-‘

‘Davy, c’mon. You look like shit, and you’re not getting much better.’

‘…all right. Cheers.’

‘Aye.’

A chair scrapes over the lino tiles, and cutlery rattles gently as someone - no doubt Davy - picks the plates up and deposits them in the sink. The kettle flicks on, and Jim’s mouth waters for the want of tea. And food. He should eat something. He gets up, and turns down the narrow hallway towards the kitchen at the back of the house. Stevie’s at the table, exactly where he always sits. Davy’s at the sink, filling it to do the washing up. There’s a newspaper spread out, half-eaten toast on a plate, and music playing quietly on the radio. The back door is open, letting sunlight in, carrying a dry-grass smell on warm air, a hint of melting tarmac behind it from the road. They both turn to look at him; Stevie with a frown through cigarette smoke, and Davy with a faint air of surprise.

‘What’re you all dressed up for?’

He looks down at himself. Black trousers, navy shirt, blue tie. Hardly dressed up. ‘I’ve a meeting at the university.'

This is met with silence. His eyes flick from one to the other, watching two faces close over. Then Davy looks back to the dishes, and Stevie ashes his cigarette.

‘Thought term finished a month ago.’

‘It did. This isn’t official, the department just wants a chat. Anyway, terms don’t apply to me.’

He says it in his most benign tone, with an underlying hint of self-deprecation. Like he’s sorry to have to point out such a thing. The air tightens anyway, and Stevie’s frown gets deeper. 

‘What do they want to chat about?’

Jimmy shrugs, and takes a cup down off the shelf. ‘I don’t know. My supervision, I expect.’

‘You haven’t even started yet.’ Stevie gestures towards the sink. ‘When Dave went, he just turned up to enrol and-‘ 

He stops talking. Jim makes sure to look politely embarrassed, though he’s laughing in his head. Davy chooses a cup and starts washing it, using far more effort than necessary. 

‘Why didn’t you go to America? Mam said Harvard wanted you. And that other one, what was it?’

‘CalTech.’

‘Yeah. California. Why didn’t you go there?’

He smiles, and huffs a small laugh. ‘Too far from you pair o’clackers.’

The familiar insult brings a little smile from all three of them, but only, he thinks, because that’s what’s expected. He may play the good little brother, but Davy suspects that’s not true, and Stevie…well, even Stevie’s expression is a little tense. Maybe it’s just from the weekend they’ve had. It’s unacceptable really; Jim never leaves cracks in his persona by accident. But this is the last time he’ll have to endure sharing a house with these two, and it matters less and less what they know about him. 

Stevie stretches again. ‘I still don’t get it. If they’re not letting you enrol for September, what’s the meeting for? You’ve been hanging around their classes for a year already.’

‘They want me to be seventeen. They’ll enrol me in October, officially.’

‘But not like everyone else.’

Jim bites the edge of his tongue, and pours boiling water into his cup. He could pour it on Stevie’s face. But that would be disgusting, and messy. Shutting him up would be good, but not like that. The idea makes his stomach roll in a different way from hunger.

‘I’ve read through the undergrad syllabus already. I’m going straight into research. It’ll span departments, so they need to sort out who I’ll be submitting to, that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, _right. Special_ circumstances.’

He pours milk. Squeezes the tea bag against the side until it threatens to burst, and ruin everything. He pauses to let his hand relax, and then drops the bag into the bin. ‘Yeah. That.’

Davy stacks dishes. Jim turns to lean against the counter, tea burning into his palm where it’s wrapped around the cup. Stevie looks mulish, and grinds his cigarette into the ashtray.

‘Should’ve known. G’on then, run on. You wouldn’t want to be late.’

‘It’s not for an hour. I’m not going to be late.’

And like hell is he going to be ordered out of his own house. He _lives_ here, and Stevie can sod right off. This seems to be obvious even to someone thick, because Stevie stands up abruptly and snatches his toast up off the plate. ‘I’ve got proper work to be doing. Someone’s got to sort the garden out, seeing as you’ve done bugger all to it for a year.’

He disappears out the back door. Jim doesn’t move, listening to him wrestle with the lock on the shed. Davy rinses suds off a plate. 

‘Can’t help yourself, can you?’

‘I didn’t bring it up, he did. I only answered his questions.’

‘Yeah. And of course you’re not clever enough to do it without pissing him off.’ Jim says nothing, because that’s not worth a reply. They never seem to care about pissing _him_ off. ‘Why didn’t you go to America? Mam was sure you would.’

His eyes flit to the right, but not quite far enough to see Davy’s face. He yells at himself for such a giveaway, and schools his gaze back to perfect neutrality. ‘I just told you why.’

‘And we both know bullshit when we hear it. We’re not _that_ stupid.’

Jim wonders what their mother said to her other two boys, because she never told him she was sure he’d go. She just said it was his decision. The real reason flits across his mind, and away. He takes one sip of tea, and puts the cup down as he straightens. 

‘I like Dublin. We never should have left.’

He doesn’t look at his brother as he moves towards the door, not until Davy’s reply makes him pause.

‘You hate Dublin. You always did.’

He half-turns his head back, but doesn’t stop. Yeah, he can’t deny that, but he’s not going to give the satisfaction of admitting it either. It would be a dangerous precedent to start letting them believe they can be right about anything, and especially not in relation to him. 

‘See you later.’

There’s no response this time, and he lets the conversation sink down in his head, something to come back to later. There’s more important things to consider today.

 

*

 

The Old Library of Trinity College is possibly his favourite place in the world, Davy’s comments about the city notwithstanding. A building like this doesn’t belong to any _place_ ; there are countless huge old libraries around the world, some possibly even as beautiful as this. But he knows this one and he’s comfortable here, not like the British library with its day-trippers and tourist readers, using the rooms just to say they have more than doing any actual research. Not like the Bodleian, with its endless tours and gaping sightseers, and its refusal to let him - even _him_ \- into Radcliffe Camera. He runs his fingers along the spines of books now, but doesn’t take one out. The meeting is in ten minutes, and if he starts reading he’ll miss it. He shouldn’t have tempted himself but it’s cool in here, a balm after the heat and stench of the bus ride in. And he needs to get his head in the right place, because James Moriarty - genius, academic _wunderkind_ \- is very different from Jim Moriarty, and this is the second area of his life he really can’t afford to fuck up. Show the wrong thing here, and the only option will be to disappear forever. He suspects that’s what’ll need to happen anyway, but not yet, not if he can help it. He has to believe there’s still another option, even if he doesn’t really want to take it.

‘Mr Moriarty. Thank you for being punctual. Come in.’

He stands and shakes Professor Foster’s hand, acknowledging a thrill within himself as he does so. His smile, for the first time in a long time, is entirely genuine. 

‘I didn’t know I’d be meeting with you today, Professor. The letter didn’t say.’

‘Well, there’ll be a couple more along in half an hour or so, I daresay. I wanted a little time to speak with you alone. Do you mind if I call you James?’

‘Not at all.’

 _James_ speaks with less of a Dublin drawl than Jim, the accent tidied up from the years in England. He is neat, and precise, and polite. He and Jim share the habit of flicking their gaze over a room, absorbing everything about it in seconds and filing the information away for sorting and calculation. By the time he’s walked six feet to the chairs set out tutorial-style in the corner, he knows that Foster is in good health but is about to retire, his eyesight is poor, he has seven requests for comments on upcoming publications, his wife is ill, one child out of his three has died, and he has two small dogs of considerable age. Behind the glasses, the man’s mind pierces like a stiletto blade, and something in Jim rears up to meet it, opening himself to take it head on. They sit, and it’s all he can do not to lean forward and start demanding knowledge.

‘I may as well start by telling you that I won’t be your supervisor. I’m retiring in six months. But Professor Hamilton thought it might be beneficial for us to meet before you decide on your areas of research, given your interests.’

Jim nods, yes, yes, it makes sense. He can’t help the statement that’s really a question. ‘You knew Alan Turing.’

Foster smiles benevolently. ‘I did, yes. I imagine you’d liked to have known him too, and you can ask me all about him later. But let’s talk about you, James. Why don’t you tell me about your interest in computers?’

He’s been waiting his whole life for an invitation like this. He opens his mouth, and for the first time he can remember, he doesn’t know exactly what’s going to come out. He pauses, wanting to say _everything_ …and then he does, spilling it all; computational methods and system science, computer architecture based on Foster and Turing’s work on the Manchester Mark I; encoding schemes, binary function, the development of operating systems currently on the market and their future potential, the expansion of the World Wide Web, the applications based in maths for use in astrophysics, encryption, security and defence, guided missiles and surveillance, military application…he talks and talks, and the numbers dance behind his eyes before falling into lines and forming the pictures he sees as he speaks of them. Computers will do everything, he knows it. They are the key that can unlock the world beyond its mediocre veneer; a matrix of algorithms and equations that run in buzzing blue lines under the surface layer of sport, and beer, and TV and news, and tedious, endless, _whatever_. Break into that underground web, and there will be no such thing as secrets, or boredom, or silence needing to be filled. He can learn it all and then break for the sky, a universe to learn, a sky wide enough to satisfy even him.

There’s a question or two from Foster, words he only just hears, and the door opens at one point. By the time his throat is dry and he’s nodding - like yes, see, that is his interest in computers, he has now answered the question - there are three people watching him; Foster, and a man, and a woman, and all of them are silent and watchful. Jim looks at each in turn, his blood on fire, waiting, anticipating, not knowing what to expect but experiencing a sensation he rarely comes across. Hope, that’s all. Hope that they’ll understand. 

Foster clears his throat. ‘Well, James.’

Jim’s fingers curl into the wooden arms of his chair. He does not believe in God, but he wishes he did because that would make sense of the plea in his head that is almost a prayer. Please. Please understand.

‘I think we’re very lucky to have you here at Trinity. Let’s see what can be done for you.’

 

*

 

James stands on the edge of Library Square with his eyes closed, soaking in the sun. It’s green, and lush, and beautiful. There are people lying on the grass, eating their lunches and talking to friends; there are pigeons and walkers, and post-grad students with books; there are people playing frisbee, and two with a football, kids climbing on the sculpture, and tourists having their photo taken with George Salmon near the Parliament building. He can’t say he feels like he belongs, because he still can’t enrol until October. But he is going to. He has supervisors across three departments, a free reign to research, bursary offers that almost match the money the Americans tried to throw at him last year. He can spend years working here, absorbed in pure numbers, and when he’s got his PhD they’ll give him a job for sure, or any other university will, or he could go and work at an observatory or maybe with NASA, and never need think of Earth again. He stretches his arms out and raises his face (and thinks of the edge of that roof in Belfast, that same feeling of ascension, the true euphoria of freedom), and laughs up at the sun. They listened. They _listened_. And he thinks they understood.

He drops his arms back to his sides, and opens his eyes. A woman is grinning at him, like strangers sometimes do when they catch someone’s joy and respond in kind. ‘You’re having a good day,’ she says, and Jim is too high to roll his eyes at the banality of her words, and the need people have to state the obvious. Or maybe James is in control, because he just grins back.

‘I am.’

And he is. It is a rare and beautiful thing, and he is filled with the energy of it to the extent that instead of wanting to go back home to his projects, he wants to stay outside. And it’s not even anything to do with Stevie being back at the house. He needs to do something to celebrate. What, though? He thinks it over as he pulls his tie off and folds it into his pocket. And then smiles like a shark, turns on his heel and starts walking in the direction of the computer lab. 

He knows this place well, having spent half of most days in it over the last year. They gave him free reign to use the faculty buildings for maths, astrophysics and computer science, and have let him sit in on whatever lectures he wanted for the last year. He’s been playing with one particular computer so much, other regulars in the place leave it for him now. He’s got one at home, obviously, but it’s not connected to the Web. Very few at the university are, but he reckons that’ll have changed by the time he’s finished here. And the one he likes best most definitely is.

He remembers just before entering the building that he still hasn’t eaten, and that one sip of tea is not going to cut it any longer. He veers off just far enough to buy a bag full of sandwiches and sweets, and is chomping on a cheese and pickle when he flings himself into his usual seat and boots the computer up.

‘Not supposed to eat in here, Jim.’

‘Yeah yeah. Hello, Denise.’

‘Thought something had happened to you. Where’ve you been, then?’

Jim licks pickle off his fingers, and smiles at her. Denise is twenty-two and English, and quite pretty even though her hair is stuck in 1988. And definitely fancies him, even if she is boring enough to keep telling herself he’s too young for her. Not that she’s told him that, but she doesn’t need to.

‘Meeting with George Foster.’

Her plucked eyebrows go up. ‘I heard he was retiring.’

‘He is, but he wanted to talk to me.’

‘Of course he did. What’re you working on today? Oh, and - there’s been a notice sent out, asking whoever keeps modifying the hardware on certain machines to please stop doing it. Don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?’

He’s typing, not looking at her. ‘Not a thing. Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Uh huh. Want to look over the latest draft of my dissertation?’

‘If I do, will you go for a drink with me?’

She sighs, _so_ put upon. ‘If I go for a drink with you, I’ll have to _buy_ all the drinks. Not attractive.’

‘Who cares? I’ll give you the money. The drinks will still be drunk.’ And she’s a fucking idiot if she thinks age matters, because he’s light years smarter than her, and - he has no doubt - a hell of a lot more experienced in bed. ‘We could have fun.’

‘ _No_ , Jimmy.’

He shrugs, uncaring. ‘I’ll pass on the dissertation then, thanks.’

The air between them feels offended, but so what? Does she think he’s actually interested in her work? He is not, and his eyes stay glued to the screen as he worms his way through what records and information are available remotely, which aren’t too many. The name Frank Kavanagh throws up some details, and hacking further throws up a few more but nothing he hasn’t already read from his initial research into the man. He’s looking for connections with Peter this time, things he might have missed when the man wasn’t on his radar. He only learned his surname from the ledger a few nights ago, but adding Boyd into the mix doesn’t expand things much further. It’s still an interesting detail, being a far more common surname in the North. But Peter’s accent was Dublin, so - well, it’s another thing he might look into. 

He sits back eventually, tapping his fingernails on the table in front of the keyboard. He didn’t expect to get much from this, but it was worth a shot. The usual way of gleaning information is to find people and talk to them, or listen to their conversations, either in person or not. There are microfilms of newspapers and public records, so he could trawl through them. But there’s a more direct route available, and it would almost certainly give him more information than he has now, given who Peter worked for. It would also mean playing a card he’s been saving up - - but really, for what? Once he lays that joker down, it’s not going to be removed from the game. It’ll sit there, waiting to be used again and again. Jim peels the wrapper off a ham and mustard sandwich, and starts wolfing it down. Yeah. Why not go for it?

‘Jesus, you’ll choke. Slow down.’

‘Sorry, Mam.’

‘Shut up. At least try not to get crumbs in the keyboard. I’m here more than you, and I’ll have to listen to them complaining.’

Blah blah blah. Jim thinks back to the meeting to keep his mind high, and cracks open a Coke to wash the food down. He drains it, and then dumps everything he brought up with him into the bin, his left hand whizzing over the keys to clear his work, delete all record of his activity, and close the computer down. He bounces to his feet, looking over at Denise for the first time. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder thing today, with big hoop earrings and blue eyeshadow. She looks like an audition for a Madonna tribute band backing singer.

‘Sure you don’t want a drink?’

He, on the other hand, looks _good_ in this blue shirt, and he knows it. An internal smile unfolds as she glances him over, and hesitates.

‘…ask me in September. You never know your luck.’

Pre-finishing one-night-stand then, got it. Check. Done. She’ll tell herself it won’t matter; one night before going back to England and never seeing him again. Satisfy her curiosity and lie to herself about wanting him in the first place. God, so dull. He plots her humiliation as he grins, makes himself look like he’s really hoping it’ll happen, and heads out of the lab and down to the bus stop. Back to Terenure, then. The joker in the pack awaits. One of them, at least. 

 

*

 

The house he lives in now is on the north edge of the village, and used to belong to his grandparents. They’d always said they were going to leave it to their only child, Jim’s mother, but then she married Frank Moriarty and it became clear she wasn’t going to want for a decent living. His dad has never been _rich_ , but always been comfortable. His office job easily supported his family, and he was also left a house by his parents when they died. Jim remembers an amicable conversation or two before they left for England, when it was decided the house would be left to the grandsons, an equal three-way split. They died a year apart, and the place sat empty because his dad had sold up when they moved, and it was nice to have a property to come back to whenever they felt like visiting home. They used to come back every summer for the long holiday.  And then Jim decided to move back in his free year between school and university, so he could plunder Trinity’s academic resources while he waited to enrol. If there were any doubts about letting a boy not quite sixteen live his own life away from his family, he never heard them. He’s a good boy, after all. A good boy who’s sensible, and insanely clever, and who - he thinks - they were all secretly glad to be free of. Stevie stayed in England working on a building site, before deciding to join the army. Davy’s at uni in Nottingham, studying to be an engineer. Jim is…

…Jim is humming to himself as he ambles near the estate they used to live on. He passes his old primary school, and doesn’t spare it a glance in case the old fury comes back and ruins his mood. He smirks at the church where he first learned blackmail, and scans the road for any sign of people he used to know. There’s only one of those he wants to see today. He was eight when they left, which is too young for any kid to keep in touch with old friends - and he hadn’t had any to keep in touch with, so that works out. Which isn’t to say there aren’t some who would remember him, though for reasons they probably try not to think about. 

It’s all irrelevant. He sticks his hands in his pockets, and doesn’t need any time to think, or prepare himself. He just swings left into the Garda station, and walks right up to the desk.

‘Is Garda Whelan working today?’

The man behind the desk looks bored, and nods. ‘Aye. It’s not a personal matter, is it? We’ve enough to be doing without people popping in for a chat.’

‘All official. I want to report-‘ Jim’s eyes go theatrically wide, and he drops his voice to a stage whisper, ‘-a _crime_.’

The Garda just looks at him, unimpressed. ‘You can report a crime to me, and I’ll get someone from the right department down to deal with you.’

He’s already shaking his head. ‘No, I’ll only talk to him. He’ll want to know about it, though.’

This earns him a sigh, but he’s waved off to sit in the waiting room. He slouches into a plastic chair, and rests his ankle across his knee, humming to himself again. This is turning out to be an excellent day, and all the more fun for this unexpected outing. He hangs his head back over the chair, stretching his neck out and reading the pinned-up notices upside down, bored with sitting still. Until a door opens and he smiles, without looking up.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so.’

He raises his head slowly. Garda Liam Whelan blinks once, and his expression of professional neutrality freezes solid. His mouth stops half-open and Jim tilts his head, watching with interest as the man’s skin turns pale.

‘Oh my God.’

It’s a tiny whisper, little more than a breath. Jim makes himself rueful, and tilts his hand back and forth in the air.

‘I wouldn’t go that far, but okay.’

‘What are you _doing_ here? I thought you weren’t-’

Jim raises his eyebrows, a silent invitation for him to go on. But whatever Whelan told himself to make it all go away is not his problem. He never said he was going to be gone for good.

He gets up slowly, unwinding himself in a way that hints of…something. He’s positive the idiot at the desk won’t notice, but Whelan will and that’s what matters.

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Is it - - they said you wanted to report something.’

‘I do. Whether I _will_ or not depends on how the talk goes. Come on, I don’t have all day.’

Whelan shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click together, and his face goes even more white. Jim just looks at him with no intention of helping him out, so in the end he has no choice but to lead him through to the rooms set aside for members of the public to come in, and tattle about the dull things that befall them. The advantage of these places is that there’s no cameras or microphones in them. Those are saved for the rooms with actual suspects.

‘How've you been, Mr Whelan?’

‘Fine.’

It’s a dark mutter as Whelan arranges his notepad on the table, and spends far too long fussing with the lid of his biro. Jim slouches opposite, and waits for him to collect himself. 

‘How’s Cormac?’

‘Fine.’

‘What’s he up to?’

‘He’s doing his final exams just now, then off to college in September. What do you _want_ , James?’

Jim pulls a face to convey how sad he is that he’s not allowed to catch up on people he used to know, and spreads his hands. Fine, fine. Straight down to business, then. ‘I want someone’s file. I want you to check their criminal record. I want everything you have on them.’

‘…what?’

He will not repeat himself. Whelan flounders; Jim imagines not only due to the request, but the implications of refusal versus the damage to his career if he gets caught. He lets him drown, assuming he’ll float back up in a minute or two. In the meantime, he just watches.

‘I can’t just give out records, James. That’s insane. What do you want it for?’

‘I want to know something about someone. Obviously.’

‘Well, I can’t help you.’

Jim laughs, he can’t help it. More of a chuckle really, and a patronising one at that. ‘You’re cute, Liam. Now go and get it for me. Chop chop. I won’t _tell_ what you’ve done, and I won’t take it out of this room. I just need to read it.’

‘I _can’t_.’

This is getting boring already. Jim pulls a cigarette out and lights it, even though he doesn’t want one. Presentation is important sometimes. He says nothing, because he’s said what he needs to. All that’s left is to give the name.

‘James-‘

He glances up, eyebrows quirked. Whelan flounders again, and he hasn’t regained his colour. He’s about one second away from-  

‘Please. Please don’t do this.’

-begging. Jim sighs, and straightens up in his chair. ‘I won’t do it.’

Whelan does not relax.

‘As long as you do what I want.’

‘…but there’s no _reason_ for me to bring someone’s criminal record to a member of the public, who’s just walked in off the street. If anyone sees - and they will - I could lose my job.’

‘You’ll lose more than that if you don’t.’

And now it looks like he might panic, or cry. Both options are hilarious. He could also theoretically turn violent, but the odds of that are low. The man doesn’t need more questions pointed his way. Jim sighs again, and ashes his fag on the floor.

‘Hide the file in something, and sneak it down. Nothing could be easier.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You _can,_ and you _will!_ ’

Jim’s palm slams flat down on the table. Whelan jumps, and gasps a breath. Jim has no doubt his life is passing before his eyes; not because he’s about to die, but because he might as well if someone kicks this particular can of worms open. 

He leans in, forcing eye contact. ‘Don’t think I won’t do it. Don’t think I won’t tell the whole fucking world what you did. Go. And get. The file.’

‘What _I_ did? It was - - it was _you._ _You_ did it.’

‘I was twelve, love. You know as well as I do I’m pure as the driven snow if we’re talking culpability.’

He sits back, as easy as if the flare of rage never happened. Whelan is crumpling, a puppet with his strings cut. His pen weaves uneasily through his fingers, but it appears he’s not going down without a fight.

‘I’d just say you were lying. My word against yours, and I’m a Guard.’

‘ _God_.’ He ejects the word with force, bored bored bored. But fine, okay, he’s going to have to talk him through the obvious. ‘First - the idea that I don’t have proof is laughable, so don’t be an idiot. I don’t have it with me though, so don’t get any ideas about trying to beat it away from me. And don’t bother trying to put me off by demanding to see it first, because if that file isn’t in this room within ten minutes, I’ll go and spill my guts to the gentleman out front - and anyone else who cares to listen - and the damage will be done. You’ll be looking at investigations, suspension until it’s sorted out, the drag through the system while they decide if they’ve got enough evidence to prosecute - which they will have, because I’ll give it to them - and then the _press_.’ Jim blows his cheeks out, and shakes his head, because yeah, the press. What can you do? Nightmare. ‘They’ll have a collective jizz over it, and I don’t think the Garda want to go through what the church is currently enjoying, do they? They’ll cut you off, and it’s bye-bye pension, hello jail time. All those years you’ve done here, for nothing.’

He tuts softly under his breath, almost sorrowful. He doesn’t take his gaze from Whelan, who can’t seem to think of anything to say. Jim could mention the impact on his family, but it’s not necessary. He also considers the possibility that Whelan could try and kill him. It’s unlikely, because that’s not how he’s programmed - and anyway, he’d have to do it outside the police station, which won’t do any good if Jim’s already spilled the beans. It’d be actively suspicious.

So.

‘...what name is it.’

‘Peter Boyd. Hurry up, tick tock.’

Whelan gets up like he’s a man about to walk to the gallows. But then; ‘Peter Boyd?’

Interesting. The name is obviously known even among the lower ranks. Jim nods, once.

‘What do you want to know about him for? How do you even know him?’

‘I didn’t say I know him, I said I wanted to know something about him. Don’t go getting any ideas, you can’t bash my credibility that way.’

‘Associating with criminals will definitely bash your credibility.’

‘But I’m not. And anyway, Liam, what would you do about it if I were?’ He puts his cigarette to his lips, and sucks until his cheeks hollow. ‘It’d still be all over for you.’

Whelan stares at him, helpless. His thoughts might as well be written on his forehead in neon. Professional duty, or personal ruin? Peter Boyd worked with Frank Kavanagh, the recently deceased ganger who controlled the northside’s drug supply. And now James Moriarty, a slippery little bugger, is asking about him in the most stark of blackmail terms. Can’t not be something going on.

Well. Jim huffs a laugh. The thoughts no doubt go more like _shit. Shit shit shit, fuck, bugger._ _Help!_ But when he’s calmed down a bit, rationality may return.

‘Go on, Liam. We both know you’re not going to ruin your entire life over a minor enquiry into a bad guy. So do as your told, and then I’m gone.’

It’s the final push. Whelan points at his face, and tries to sound menacing. ‘It better be. I’ll do this _one_ time, James. And then I never want to see you again.’

Jim just looks at him, until he stops pointing and leaves the room. Then he grins, and smushes his cigarette butt into the floor. Like Liam Whelan is in any position to make demands. Like Jim won’t continue to use him as he sees fit, until he’s no good to him any more. Like this isn’t payback; for being weak, and stupid, and not in control; for being dumb enough to ever believe he could take advantage of James Moriarty.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP)
> 
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>  
> 
> Song: OneRepublic - Counting Stars


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

_And that's me, that's me_

_The boy with the broken halo_

_That's me, that's me_

_The devil won't let me be_

 

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

Jim allows the house to settle through the week. He’s got some things to mull over after seeing Peter’s police file, and he can’t be bothered with his brothers while he does it. Davy’s recovering on stronger antibiotics and has a couple of days off, so Jim makes him cups of tea and asks the right questions about his health. He speaks to their mother on the phone, and - the three of them are united on this - gently reassures her that she doesn’t need to come over and look after him. Stevie spends every morning nursing a new hangover, finally killing it off with a lunchtime fry-up and readying himself for a new round of goodbye drinks with various pals every night. The only rough patch comes on Tuesday evening, when Jim’s stirring pasta with one hand and reading from a book held in the other.

‘What’s that you’re into?’

Stevie’s defensive in every question about things Jim does, but Jim doesn’t notice this evening because he’s preoccupied with, ‘-learning Czech.’

Which would be bad enough on its own, but he says it _in_ Czech because that’s the language he’s thinking in. When he realises and glances up, Stevie looks like he might hit him.

‘Sorry. Sorry, accident. I’m learning Czech.’

‘ _Why?_ ’

He shrugs, not about to explain that he’s planning a trip this summer and so invite more questions. Even if it would be better in this situation, because that would give Stevie a reason rather than just making him believe his annoying little brother is being a smartarse for the sake of it. Luckily, his friends honk their car horn to let them know they’re here, so Stevie settles for a black look and a curt, ‘have fun, dork,’ thrown over his shoulder before disappearing to get pissed yet again. Jim rolls his eyes, and dismisses it from his mind.

The three of them order a Chinese takeaway on Wednesday, and eat it together while watching crap telly. Jim smiles and laughs through the feeling of the walls closing in, itching to be out of the room, fighting with every fibre of his being not to roll his eyes at every excessively heterosexual comment Stevie makes about women on the screen. It wouldn’t be so bad if he just said this stuff, but every single time - every, single, time - he glances sideways at Jim, as if waiting for him to try the same thing about men, or show signs of interest in girls, or maybe just hoping he’ll rise to it. A ton of bricks has more subtlety than Stevie. Jim ignores all of it, partly because it’s too dumb to bother with and partly because he’ll have his revenge tomorrow.

Thursday is Davy’s birthday. Stevie gives him a Lynx bath set, and the promise of free drinks when they go out to celebrate on Friday night. Jim gives him a working model of George Stevenson’s _Rocket_ that he made himself, perfect in every detail, and a £100 gift voucher for the model train store so he can build his own track to run it on. Davy’s always loved trains. He looks like he might cry with joy. Stevie looks like he might commit murder, but fuck him. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

‘I don’t know what to say, Jimmy. Thanks.’

Jim just shrugs, gives the obligatory sibling shoulder-push, and goes back upstairs to the new computer he’s building with bits stolen from the university. Stevie sticks his head into his room later, without bothering to knock.

‘You’re coming out with us tomorrow night. No arguments. It’s for his birthday.’

Jim doesn’t look up from his book. ‘Of course I will. I’ll have to leave for an hour or two in the middle, but he’ll be pissed by then. He won’t notice.’

‘Where are you going?’

For God’s sake. Really? ‘I might be meeting someone.’

‘Jimmy-‘

‘Don’t start. I’m as entitled to go on the pull as you are, and he won’t even know I’m gone.’

There’s a long beat of silence, in which Jim removes him from his mind and returns to coding. He only vaguely hears the mutter of, ‘pervert,’ as Stevie disappears back off to bed, or whatever it is he spends his pointless days doing. Jim rolls his eyes and sinks into numbers; deep, deep, down; far away from this house, and these endlessly tedious people.

  

*

 

_Sussex. 1984._

 

 

The new house is bigger than the one in Dublin. Jimmy stands in the middle of an empty room, and decides he likes it. _His_ room, all his own. He stretches his arms out and turns in a circle, and can’t touch the walls. It’s good. It was going to be shared with Davy, but then - - well, Davy kicked up a fuss and said he didn’t want to share any more, and their parents tried to persuade him because they wanted this room to be an office or something. But Davy cried; he cried a lot, he said it wasn’t fair, and Stevie got his own room and he didn’t want to share with Jimmy anymore, why did he have to, why was it always him, why couldn’t someone else…

Jimmy stops spinning, but keeps his face turned up to the ceiling. He’s dizzy. Flying might feel like this. Maybe. If it would only stay quiet. He bets it’s quiet up in the sky. The removal men are packing up so it should settle down around here, but it hasn’t _yet_. He thinks they might be over the worst noise until there’s a crash, and a cry, and it sounds like Stevie’s fallen over on his crutches again. He’s had them almost two weeks, shouldn’t he be better at them by now? Jimmy had pointed this out after a week, and Ma had told him to hush. That it was the concussion throwing his balance off, and he’d get better soon.

Jimmy thinks it’s not fair that Stevie will get better soon, and is angry about it. But he’s easy to avoid for now, and it means Jimmy is able to choose the bigger of the two bedrooms left free, because Stevie can’t get up the stairs to come and claim it. Davy’s got the biggest, and Stevie’s got the box at the end of the landing. Serves him right.

‘You two! C’mon and help get your things. Your mam’s not doing it all for you.’

Da’s voice echoes off the unfilled spaces of the house, giving it a thin and tinny quality. Jimmy tilts his head and listens to the vibrations until they fall past the audible range, and then walks to the door. He meets Davy coming out of his room along the landing, and they catch each other’s eyes. Jimmy just looks at him. Davy looks back…then seems to realise he shouldn’t, or doesn’t want to, and lowers his gaze to the floor.

‘C’mon,’ he mutters, and sidles past. ‘Or he’ll shout all day.’

Jimmy waits until the landing is empty, and contemplates this exchange. Then he hears Da swearing, and Stevie saying he’s hungry, and the absence of sound that means Davy and Ma are getting on with the work without complaint. _Family_ , he thinks, and waits for a feeling to arrive. Something does, eventually. An attachment that’s all the more odd because it’s noticeable at all. Other kids don’t seem to think about it, they’re just part of one and they know it, and they don’t have to notice how they feel. That’s what it looks like to him, at least. He…is not sure what he thinks about it now, in light of everything.

But it doesn’t change the fact he has to get his things before anyone touches them. So he creeps down the stairs in an effort to not be noticed, and heads for the boxes with ‘J’ scrawled on the side. There are only three. He’s never been one to collect stuff, and he can’t bear clutter in his space. He told Ma to throw almost everything out when they left, so now there’s one box of clothes and shoes, and two of books. His picture of the solar system lies neatly folded into an A Level physics textbook, where it’ll be safe. 

‘Da? I can’t lift it, it’s too heavy.’

‘For God’s sake! I’ve enough to do with the furniture. Put your back into it.’

‘It’s books, I can’t.’

This isn’t a lie. He’d rather move them himself, but he’s eight and they’re big books. It might be days before they unearth a knife or scissors to cut the box open, or he’d carry them up one by one.

‘Davy, help the kid.’

‘But-‘

‘ _Now_.’

Davy’s face is a neutral mask as they take a side each, four small hands curled into the rough edge of cardboard handles, straining to pull it up the stairs.

‘You’ve got to help me with mine, now.’

Davy’s tone is stubborn; resentful. Jim shakes his head.

‘I’ve got to put the shelves together, and put my things away.’

‘You’ve hardly got any things!’

‘Still got to put them away.’

‘Da! Jimmy says he won’t help with my stuff!’

Wherever their da is, he obviously can’t hear. Or maybe he can and he’s just ignoring them. Frank Moriarty’s not the sort of man you run off to and pester, they both learned that a long time ago. Stevie never seems to learn it, but then, he gets on well with the man. 

‘Tell-tale.’

‘Shut up, Jimmy.’

‘Why? I don’t tell tales on you.’

‘I don’t do things that need telling on. Not like you.’

Jimmy looks up as they strain the box another step up. Davy keeps his eyes resolutely down. It sits between them; this thing that happened to Stevie, which everyone thinks was an accident. Including Stevie, but he barely remembers it at all. No one would believe him if he started pointing fingers. 

‘So you should help me with my stuff. Or I’ll tell.’

Jimmy shrugs. ‘No, you won’t.’

‘I will.’

‘You won’t.’

‘I will. Why won’t I? I _will_.’

They have both stopped pulling the box. Davy lets it sit on the step, and straightens. Jimmy holds onto his side, and just rolls his eyes up so he can see his brother’s face. It’s a nice face. Davy’s a handsome kid.

‘You won’t,’ Jimmy says, keeping his voice very quiet, very soft. ‘Because you don’t want it to happen to you.’

It’s very still, halfway up the stairs. The noise of shifting boxes seems very far away, life happening at a distance, on the other side of the _thrum thrum thrum_ in his head, the beat of anger and adrenaline starting to heat his blood. The air around them feels warm, even with doors and windows open, washing the house with a frigid November chill. Davy could run downstairs, towards the noise and normality. He could tell. But he won’t. Jimmy knows he won’t. Davy saw what happened, but it was dark and he could have been wrong. He knows his little brother did it, but did he _really_? Little brothers aren’t supposed to do things like that.

Forty-three point six seconds tick by. Jimmy slices the milliseconds off in his head as they pass, watching them flow with a sensation of boredom. Slow; too _slow_.

Davy bends down, and takes hold of the box. His spindly arms strain to pull, and for a moment Jim just lets him work on his own, trying and trying, and getting nowhere.

Then he tightens his grip, and starts to work with him. ‘Bend your knees,’ he says, and smiles when Davy hesitates, then does what he’s told.

 

*

  

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

Jim leans on the wall next to the toilets, pint in one hand and a fag in the other. Tonight has gone on forever already, and it’s not even eight yet. They started in the Submarine, then Stevie forced them over to a pub near the barracks, and now they’re in town with about twenty friends they’ve picked up on the way, and everyone’s off their face already. This place is known for the live music upstairs, which means they’ll all stay down here for an hour and then go up and start singing, probably ruin the musician’s set with their caterwauling, and then get kicked out and/or start a fight. Jim muses over the possibility of getting Stevie injured in a melee, but then he’d never disappear off with the Army. Better to leave him alone, for now.

He takes his pint over to the edge of the balcony, and looks down on the crowds. It’s wall to wall people down there, and he can’t bring himself to get back into it. He’s already had to endure the laddish banter from Stevie’s mates about the swot kid brother tagging along, though several have bought him pints. They seem to think he’s going to get wasted and do stupid stuff to make them laugh. They fail to notice he’s the most sober of everyone, and it’s them doing the stupid stuff. He’s not laughing at them, though he could. He’s watching. Stevie has his arm around the shoulder of a girl, a curvaceous brunette who’s way out of his league. Davy’s on the edge of the group even though it’s his birthday, talking to two lads Jim vaguely recognises through a ten-year gap where a lot of other things have happened. These are all people his brothers kept in touch with before they moved to England. He knows enough about the dynamics of friendship to recognise that it’s quite a feat, keeping in touch with kids from primary school when there’s been no formative secondary school years to glue them together. They used to come back for the summer holidays, so that helped. Maybe their moving away is what allowed it to be possible; these people never fully realised what a moron Stevie is, and never got bored of Davy’s social awkwardness. A trait that still makes Jim laugh when he thinks about it, because Davy used to be just fine, didn’t he? He played football with these people, and had friends, and what happened to mean that he’s now permanently on the edge of life, looking in?

Jim. Jim happened. It’s hilarious.

‘Are you old enough to be in here?’

Jim glances right. There’s a girl. He looks her up and down, shoving the thoughts of his brothers away. Dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, green shirt, foundation that’s too dark for her complexion. Catholic, with a Donegal hint to her accent. Twenty or thereabouts, and she’s much prettier than the girl Stevie’s slobbering all over downstairs. She has the kind of shape to make a man’s mouth water, and he feels a swirl of interest in his gut, enjoying the confidence that allows her to walk up to a perfect stranger and smile at him like that. 

She has three friends not far behind her though, doing that thing where they watch while trying to pretend they’re not. This could be a bet, a childish dare. But Jim’s all right with that, because he’ll never not step into a game. It’ll be funny when she realises she’s lost.

‘I’m old enough to be in a lot of things.’ 

He brings his cigarette to his lips, and pulls in. She blinks at the response, clearly having expected him to be nervous at being called out on his age. But she rallies fast. He likes that.

‘Are you here on your own?’

He shakes his head, and leans his elbow on the railing without breaking eye contact. The jukebox by the upstairs bar blares into life, and she has to lean in close to be heard over its racket.

‘I’m Kathleen.’

‘Sean.’

‘Hello, Sean. Do you want to buy me a drink?’

He turns the question over in his head. Does he? He does. But he has somewhere else to be. ‘Maybe. How long’re you staying here? I have to go meet a friend, but I’m coming back.’

‘I might have seen someone else I like the look of by then.’

‘You might. But you’d be making a big mistake.’

She pulls back with an incredulous laugh, eyebrows raised. ‘Well, aren’t you just full of yourself? Giving yourself quite a build up for such a wee thing.’

Fucking bitch. Jim swipes his tongue along his bottom lip, and smiles. ‘And don’t you just want to see if I’m telling the truth.’

Again with the surprised look. He’s seen it a hundred times before. People stepping into the ring, expecting things to go a certain way and then not knowing what to do when they don’t. Most back out, and he forgets about them as soon as they’re out of his eyeline. But some like their chances, and rise to the challenge. She’s going to be one of them. He’s not surprised, because looking the way she does, she’ll have met no end of brash, self-confident lads in Dublin. She’ll know what to do, right up until the moment she realises it’s not front, and he’s self-confident for a reason. 

‘Maybe not. I suppose if you come back later, I might let you try and impress me.’

‘Lucky. Me.’

There’s a flicker of uncertainty at his tone. He lets her flounder for two point six seconds, then flashes a big white grin. 

‘I’m impressed enough to want to show you how impressive I am. Stay in here for two hours. I’ll be back.’

The smile helps, but she’s still not convinced. She pauses, then decides brazening it out is the best way to go. He watches her nonchalant flick of the hair with amusement, dragging on his smoke again, calculating the temperature of his warming beer to pass the time, while she’s waiting for thoughts to transfer into words. 

‘My friends want to listen to the band, so we might stay. If not, it’s your loss.’

‘I’m sure it will be, darlin’.’

His tone says the opposite, but his condescension is lost in the music’s row and she appears mollified by the show of humility. She laughs and gives what she clearly thinks is a sultry expression - and nearly carries it off - then blows him a kiss, and goes back to her friends. He watches her for a moment, a smile touching his lips. Then he finishes his pint - twelve degrees and going flat, disgusting - stubs out his cigarette and makes his way down into the throng.

‘Stevie, I’m-‘

‘ _Jimmy._ How are ya, little bro?’ Stevie lets go of his girl and grabs him in a drunken headlock. Jim grits his teeth and allows his hands to ball into fists, because the place is so crowded no one will be able to see. ‘Havin’ a good time? Need a pint, where’s your pint gone?’

‘I drank it. I’m-‘

‘Johnny! Get my brother one in while you’re there!’ 

Jim winces at the bellow in the direction of the bar, catches the eye of who he assumes is Johnny, and shakes his head at him. 

‘Stevie, I’m going. I’ll be back. You’re all staying in here, right?’

‘Aye aye aye, in here. Where’re you- -oh right, yeah. Off to take one in the arse, aren’t ya?’

Jim’s head is grabbed again, and Stevie’s mates laugh. Because of course that’s a joke; they couldn’t possibly know anyone queer, and definitely not anyone related to James Steven Moriarty. 

‘Fuck off then, I don’t wanna know. Drink your pint first. s’Davy’s birthday.’

‘What pint?’

‘The one I just got you.’

Jim pulls a face at him, like _what_. ‘You didn’t get me a pint. What’re you talking about?’

‘I- nah, I-‘

‘Whatever. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later.’

It’s so good to get out of the pub. He’s just going to change one crowd for another, but at least the next one has the potential for something interesting to happen in it. The George is only a few streets away, as bland as ever on the outside, as hot and dim and packed inside. Jim nods at Paul, who’s wearing pink rainbow shorts tonight, and a collar with an attached leather strap that runs down his naked chest and under his waistband, no doubt harnessed to a cock ring. And an excellent hat; a proper Village People cop hat, with shiny brim. Jim immediately covets it.

‘Is it leather tonight?’

‘Oh baby, it’s leather every night in my world. But how're _you_ , Jamie? Are you doing okay?’

Paul looks genuinely concerned, and Jim frowns at him as he sticks a cigarette between his lips. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Don’t I look all right?’

‘Apart from the alarmingly straight shirt, darling, you look beautiful. As always. But I was talking about Frank.’

Frank. Oh! Frank. Jim shrugs. ‘I haven’t heard from him this week. Is he in?’

‘Oh! Oh, you don’t…’ Paul’s hand closes around his wrist. Jim is seized with the sudden, violent need to get it off. He goes still, but Paul doesn’t notice; he seems high, or maybe he’s got someone lined up to play with his strap. ‘He’s dead, Jamie. He had some sort of seizure, or something. Heart attack. I don’t know. But he’s definitely dead.’

‘…Christ.’

Jim makes sure his face is the appropriate mix of shocked, uncaring, and a bit worried about his own prospects in the light of this information. People have been seeing him as Frank’s boytoy for months, so he needs to acknowledge that, but he also doesn’t want that label being the first thing anyone thinks about him. They can remember it, sure. It’ll be useful to be thought of as something so shallow and inconsequential, but it shouldn’t be the only memory.

‘One of his friends came in asking for you earlier. He was probably trying to let you know.’

Shit. Fuck Davy, and his stupid birthday. But maybe it’s okay, because Paul finds a matchbook under the table and hands it over, making sure their fingers touch, pulling down them in a smooth stroke. Jim fights the urge to shudder, and flips the top open.

_I’ll come back on the hour until eleven. Out back. P._

Jim smiles, and folds one match out, flicking it alight between the strike strip and his thumbnail, letting the whole thing go up in flames. It’s twenty minutes until nine, so at least he can get a drink first.

‘Thanks, Paul. Nice hat, by the way.’

‘Kiss me, and it’s yours.’

Fuck it. It might just be a good night after all. Jamie laughs and leans in, allowing a soft kiss before swiping the hat off Paul’s head and setting it at a jaunty angle on his own.

‘How do I look?’

‘Good enough to eat, sugar.’

He laughs again, tips him a wink, and heads inside. Maybe he’ll have a quick dance. If Peter doesn’t come through, he’ll need to line up someone else to take the edge off this boredom. He’s not spending the whole night watching his brothers act like animals, not without some distraction to stop him going insane.

  

*

  

The space at the back of the George is exactly as it always is; an enclosed yard filled with the normal detritus of a working pub; bottle bins, normal bins, a table for staff to sit at on their breaks, and a couple at an advanced level of copulation in the corner. He’s seen it far more full than this - with people, not trash - but it’s still early and the short nights of summer mean there are fewer willing to risk fooling about where they might be seen. There’s a fence up around the yard, but the Garda have been known to raid the place, usually when the church has been pressuring the government to do something about all those dens of sin. Jim ignores the rough grunting coming from behind the commercial wheelie bin, though he doesn’t move the chair that’s angled that way either. He just puts his feet up on the table and half-watches, ignoring Peter, who very definitely _is_ angled away from the pair.

Jim’s still wearing the hat. Jamie is. And there’s a lipstick kiss on his collarbone, and a light sheen of sweat the warm breeze does nothing to dissipate. It smells of old beer out here. He wrinkles his nose, and lights yet another cigarette.

‘Well, then,’ he says eventually, and tosses his Zippo down. ‘I suppose you changed your mind.’

‘I didn’t come for that, Jamie.’

Dull. Predictable. ‘Then what? Don’t tell me the police are going to show an interest, after all?’

‘No, it was natural causes. The funeral was yesterday.’

He knows. Boring. Moving on. ‘Sooooo…?’

‘…honestly? I’m not sure.’

Not boring. Jamie smiles. Jim narrows his internal eyes, and scans the man over. It’s the first time he’s seen Peter out of a suit, though the slacks and shirt are tidy enough. He’s very neat. It makes sense; he’s ex-military, ex-police, and is, if his record is to be believed, an extremely capable killer. Arrested a few times, never convicted. Dishonourably discharged from both services, for separate reasons. He must have powerful friends. Jim’s been doing some digging, because Peter is highly interesting. 

And highly suspicious, but it’s not like Jim would have trusted him anyway. 

‘If you’re not _sure_ ,’ he sing-songs gently, ever the twink in this persona, ‘then I think you’re probably interested, you just don’t want to admit it.’

‘Oh, I’ll admit I’m interested in something. Just not that.’

‘Liar.’

Peter doesn’t bother refuting it, though it’s honestly hard to tell whether it’s because he doesn’t feel the need to, or he’s just silently admitting that yes, fine, maybe he’s a liar. Either way, it’s good. Jim has the notion he might actually want to fuck Peter, but that aside, it’s so rare to meet someone whose every thought isn’t written on their face, in the lines of their body, for him to read. Sometimes he feels like he could slide his words into the cracks people don’t know they’re showing, and break them apart with a simple turn of phrase. Hasn’t he done that before? He has. He definitely has.

‘Who are you working for now?’

‘No one.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re retiring.’

‘No, I can’t afford to do that. But working security isn’t a case of turning up at the Jobcentre and asking who’s hiring.’

Jamie - who clearly knows nothing about these things - widens his eyes. ‘Why not? They have agencies and everything. You could get a job here, working the door with Paul.’

Peter’s eyes narrow. ‘You say things like that, and I don’t know if you’re taking the piss. You can’t be that stupid. No one can.’

‘Maybe I just like to tease.’

‘Oh, I’ve no doubt of it. You had Frank crawling around on his knees, didn’t you? But that’s just the problem.’ He leans forward suddenly, and Jim is struck by the clear blue of his eyes, deep-set and sparkling in his tanned face. Mmm, yes. Delicious. ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot this week-’

‘-I’m flattered.’

‘-and it seems more and more clear that you knew exactly what you were doing with him. I’ve seen it before, obviously. Clever little boys who know what they want from rich old men, and use their bodies to get it.’

‘So maybe I’m _not_ that stupid.’

Peter shakes his head without breaking eye contact. ‘We talked about that, though. You didn’t ask him for clothes, or a car, and I’m not convinced you took all the drugs he gave you. No jewellery, or even CDs, or…stereos, or whatever it is kids want. You didn’t ask him for anything.’

More interesting. And clearly he needs to be careful in the future, and make sure the act is properly refined. Peter’s right; he should have asked for more. He makes a mental note. And leans in too, to see if diversion to the mundane will derail him.

‘Maybe I just liked his _cock_ , Peter. Maybe I just liked how he fucked me.’

Peter sits back. ‘Did he, then? Because it didn’t sound like it. You had him begging last week, and I’ve not seen him that desperate for a while.’

 _Desperate_ for Frank equated to _willing to rape_ , so Jim doesn’t have any sympathy. Not that he would for the other kind of desperate either. 

‘So? What’s your point? I didn’t come here for an interrogation. I thought we’d be-‘ he tilts his head in the direction of the corner, where the grunting and slap of skin is getting more urgent, ‘-doing that by now.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

Jim watches Peter watching him, and suppresses a smile. Jamie looks bored, and a bit all at sea. He takes the police cap off and spikes his hair up, then puts it back on his head and regards him from under it. ‘What now, then?’

‘I don’t know. I wanted to see you again to figure it out.’

‘So figure it out.’

‘I’m not sure you’ll let me.’

This isn’t the first time anyone’s had suspicions about him. Davy’s had them for years. But he’s family and anyway, he’s seen things. Peter’s the first outsider to really look at what’s in front of him, and decide to ask questions. It’s oddly exhilarating to be the focus of someone’s attention. The only time he’s felt even a little bit of this is when Carl died, and a kid with a stupid name insisted he was a murderer. That had been thrilling, even if his name was never mentioned and his face never seen. But knowing there was another not-blind person in the world was an ecstasy he has not yet come off the high of. 

‘Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll let you do anything you want.’

Peter averts his eyes. Jim taps his fingertips on the table and allows the silence between them, listening to groans from the corner become soft cries, whimpers turn into whispers of _yes yes yes_. The pair in the dark must be a couple, allowing need and lust to sound that soft. Jim feels a warm twinge of arousal, a curl inside, something twisting low in the centre of him.

‘Have you got any coke on you?’

Peter shakes his head. ‘I don’t use that shit.’

‘But I do, and my supplier of the decent stuff is now dead. Didn’t you save any for me?’

‘No.’

Jamie pouts, sliding an insidious gaze over the table as the next play makes itself known. ‘Did you drive in? You should take me to get some. We can talk more in private.’

‘I didn’t drive in. And I don’t think you should be doing drugs.’

‘I don’t care. I’m going to do them anyway, so why don’t you make sure I don’t get ripped off? I’ll have to go to Darndale, or Clondalkin. Or worse-‘ he widens his eyes theatrically, ‘- _Sheriff Street_.’

‘Jamie-‘

‘Don’t be boring, Peter.’ He drops the theatrics for a second, annoyed with them, and this conversation. He’s too aware of his body to sit still tonight; he’s confined himself too long, being stuck working Frank over. The noise of a good fuck ten feet away is a needle under his skin; irritating, teasing pain without delivering, allowing no satisfaction. ‘You came here. You say you don't want sex. You don’t tell me what you _do_ want. You’re only going to figure it out once you hang around me for a bit, so why not make yourself useful? You’re a security man, so look after me. I’m not asking you to _buy_ the stuff.’

Peter stands up, an abrupt movement that makes Jim draw back. Jamie looks up at him with sudden trepidation. They watch each other without moving; someone hits orgasm in the corner, moaning into a hand clasped over their mouth. Jim’s skin breaks out in goosebumps, shivering ice and fire through his veins. 

‘You’re hiring me?’

 _Oh_. Very _good_ , Peter. Jim smiles. ‘I am.’

‘Going to pay me for the job?’

‘Maybe. If you’re lucky.’

Peter regards him in silence. Jim’s blood thumps in time with the man still striving to finish, pushing him on in his mind, his fingers twitching on the smooth fabric of his jeans.

‘I’m busy this week. Next Friday.’

‘What am I supposed to do until then? I can’t get high on nothing.’

‘Not my problem. If you want to hire me, I’m available here, next Friday, at nine o clock.’

‘…fine. You’ll be mine for the night.’

Peter opens his mouth to clarify this, and no doubt refute the wording. But he shuts it again, and nods curtly as if this can be ironed out later.

‘Next Friday, then.’

‘Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?’

‘No.’

He doesn’t go into the pub. He leaves through the back gate, shutting it with no noise. Jim watches the space where he’d stood, wearing a contemplative pout and pleasantly surprised by the way things have gone. It’s an excuse, of course; _hire me_ , a convenient get-out that allows them to see each other again. Peter’s being coy, but then, maybe he’s waiting to discover what he wants, and maybe it has nothing to do with sex. Which is good. It’s very good. It’s frustrating, but at least it’s interesting.

Jim stands up, leaving the conversation behind, ignoring the couple still not finished in the corner. Last week’s energy was work and murder; this week is the annoyance of teenage hormones. Easily taken care of. He’ll leave the real target out in the wild a bit longer, and return to the easy prey grazing around the watering hole. It’ll get it out of the way, and clear his mind for a more challenging hunt.

He wipes half the mouth print off his chest as he walks back into straight territory, but not a chance in hell he’s losing his new cop hat. He makes sure Stevie sees it as he passes back through the crowd, some people stepping aside at the look of him, caught out by whatever they’re seeing on his face. He’s not trying to hide his smirk; he feels good tonight, he feels like the world’s going to fall to its knees for him, and he knows just who’s going to be first in line.

‘You waited, then.’

Kathleen turns around, and blinks. Her eyes travel down and back up, lingering on the lipstick; he lets her look, and is still willing to bet she’s not going to back down. Her expression of surprise turns to one of interest, and then she smiles and puts one hand on her hip, showing herself off.

‘Nice hat.’

‘Kiss me and it’s yours,’ he says, and grins, and moves in to take his fill.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist available [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP)
> 
> Song: The Black Keys - Sinister Kid


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

_And I've been sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool_

_For a while now, drowning my thoughts out with the sounds_

_But do you feel like a young god?_

_You know the two of us are just young gods_

 

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

‘Sean. Sean- - 

- _Sean_ …’

Jim plays Bach in his head to drown out the endless repetition of her moaning. Her fingernails dig into his shoulders and try to bring him back, but he resists the lure of pain and stretches his neck to the side, eyes closed so he doesn’t have to look at her. Bad enough she’s wrapped her legs around his waist, trapped him inside, and if it weren’t for the tight, wet clasp of her easing the itch under his skin, he’d have been gone long ago.

‘…oh fuck. Ohfuck. Fuck, _yes_ , oh-‘

Her room stinks of incense. He hates it. He hates the moody prog-rock droning from her stereo, and the gauzy scarves she’s hung around the place, and the nursing textbooks on the bookshelves which lay her personality bare. Practical, no-nonsense, sure of herself. But sadly, turns to putty when taking it hard. She melted at the first drive into her, no fight back at all.  And now she’s thumping on his back with the heel of her hand, shuddering into climax, and she isn’t worth the lesson he’d planned in his head. He was going to teach her about underestimating him, but there’s no point, she’s too easy. He sighs as her aftershocks squeeze and caress, and waits for her to let him go.

‘Jesus.’

He smiles sweetly and looks like he might kiss her, but doesn’t. Her breath smells like rum and Coke. Sweet, and sticky. 

’Turn over?’

‘Yeah. Give me a sec.’

Sean nods. He’s not a _nice_ man, Sean. He’s a lad; cocky, and abrasive, and someone who gets women off to feed his ego, rather than for the enjoyment of their pleasure. But he’s not cruel, not as cruel as Jim wants to be, filled with the urge to mete out punishment for being boring. So he waits while she slides her legs down his body, allowing him room to slip free. She’s grinning as she strokes through his hair. He smirks at her, and pulls back so she’s got room to roll.

‘Yeah, yeah, all right. You’re old enough, I get it.’

Whatever. He puts his hands on her hips and pulls them up, making her spread her knees as wide as they can go so she’s low to the bed. She moans again as he pushes inside, and her fingers curl into the sheet when he braces over her and starts to move. He never understands why some people find this difficult; it’s simple anatomy, the most basic of human interactions. Catch someone’s interest with whatever it is they’re looking for, be it charm, or kindness, or pure physical appeal. Apply pressure in the right spots. Friction, angle, velocity, force. Every body might be different, but it’s not hard to figure out what people like. Listen to breathing, watch for reaction. Lick. Suck. _Push_. Simplest thing in the world.

‘Jesus _Christ_. Do that…that harder, there, _there-_ ‘

He rolls his eyes, and gives her what she asks for. The poster over her bed - Reservoir Dogs, inevitably - is crooked by an angle of thirteen degrees. He closes his eyes again, and returns to Bach, but the thumping of the bedpost on the wall is too distracting. She’s too wet, and making too much noise. He’d stop if the energy trapped under his skin wouldn’t be unbearable with nowhere else to go.

‘Oh fuck oh _fuck_ oh fuck…’

Jim drifts away, dealing destruction by pleasure with barely a second thought, off in search of something that’ll let this be over.

 

*

 

_London. 1989._

 

 

Carl looks smaller when he’s dead. 

It’s the thought that runs over and over; _he looks smaller now he’s dead_. And they’ve been stuck in this moment forever, this endless eternity of silence, and utter, absolute, calm. For the first time he can remember, there is pure nothing in his head. 

The lifeguard stopped trying to blow life into Carl’s lungs six point one seconds ago. Six point one seconds to release the pinch on his nose, and take his hand off his chest, and straighten up with the slow finality of dawning horror. The pool had fallen silent as he moved; terror and tears melting under the power of that unspoken knowledge. That Carl was already gone, and no amount of second-hand breath would help him now. And now…nothing. Not a sound. Not a twitch. Not a thought.

Jim stares at the body. It’s blue in places, or maybe that’s the light reflecting off water and blue tiles, or off Carl’s tight turquoise speedos. But he looks translucent, as if the skin is turning to glass. And small. So small. He hadn’t yet grown into those feet, and now, never will. The thought makes the corner of Jim’s mouth twitch upwards, and he’s aware of a burning heat in his body that’s nothing to do with the dozens of spectators, and the thick tide of shock and grief that’s pushing out of them. The wave threatens to snap at any second; drown all bar one person in this room. But in this second, _this_ second, it teeters on the brim of disbelief and horror, and Jim surfs the top of it with satisfaction starting to thud through his veins, the quiet joy of a job well done.

No more of that sneering face. No more jibes, and laughing with his friends. No more throwing Jim’s game back in his face, no more refusing to be beaten by the better man. Who’s won now? Jim is grabbed by a sudden, savage, glee. He fights the need to grin though he wants to raise his hands to the sky, and cry _victory_. It would be stupid to smile when the rest of the world is about to scream.

The lifeguard moves his head. A hundred lungs hold tight, caught on the thread of last hope. Once he speaks, it’s surely over.

‘Get the kids out of here,’ he mutters to a teacher, just loud enough for the closest children to be heard. Jim’s one of them, having earned this ringside seat. He sees the last colour drain from already-pale adult faces, and then they move, turning to their charges with outstretched arms to usher them towards safety.

‘Back to the changing rooms, boys. The ambulance will be here in a second.’

The tide bursts. Another teacher wipes their eyes with their hand, and a child starts to cry. The audience mutter to each other, and then there’s a wail and the room is alive, shifting as one, turning to the person next to them to talk about it, hug each other, cry, reach out for the reassurance of touch. Doors crash open through the building, making way for paramedics who are already too late.

Jim stands still as the grave, and stares into Carl’s empty eyes. _You deserved it_ , he tells him. And wishes he believed in an afterlife, so that Carl could look down, and know just how good this feels.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

He comes silently, and without satisfaction. Kathleen is spilling incoherence into the pillow; a quivering, jerking mess. Just like Carl had been, only that had been better. That had been good. _This_ is just…a thing that’s happening, and he’s not sure when exactly he found it impossible to ease himself with women, but it might be time to give up trying. Men are different. There’s a tiny element of giving up control to them, depending on the age of the person he’s chosen to play with. There is never that with girls, and he has to get out of this room.

He gives a push into her, and makes her whimper. She touches herself blindly, searching for one final peak before he pulls away. Jim stares at the Tarantino poster while she bucks underneath him, and tilts his head at the characters. A gang of them in shades and suits, thinking they’re cool. A cop in their midst. Their futures foretold in the blood-splash red above their heads; men sauntering under a cloud, from which no amount of guns, smart mouths or sharp tailoring will save them. DOGS is the dominant word. No doubt people think it’s a compliment, as if a dog is something to aspire to. Watered-down wolves, led in a pack by someone with the sense to stay far above. Idiots.

‘Jesus, Sean.’

‘Mm,’ he says, and pulls out of her without much care. She falls flat at once, laughing a breath while he sits on his heels, and removes the condom. Finding a bin for it gives him the excuse to move away, and he doesn’t come back to the bed. He starts dressing, uncomfortably aware of a manic edge to his thoughts. Thinking of Carl agitates him in ways that always frustrate. And that frustration makes him angry, because it had been such a beautiful moment until _someone_ decided to ruin it. Someone who has so much, and had to take that as well. 

‘You all right? You don’t have to leave. I’ll make us a cup of tea.’ She twinkles at him from under dishevelled hair. Not the artful kind of mess that women know looks good. This is the aftermath of a storm, and she’s too far drowned to care what she looks like.

Jim pulls his shirt on, and starts to button it. ‘I can’t, darlin’. I’ve got to work tomorrow. Best be off.’

 _'_ Oh. Well-‘ there’s a flash of something that might be hurt, and a defensive edge to her words. ‘Suit yourself. Leave your number, I might call you.’

He smirks, and shoves his feet into his trainers. Then leans down to kiss her cheek, which makes her smile.

‘Nah, I don’t think so,’ he says, and leaves without looking back. She can feel disappointed or not, he doesn’t care. She failed to give him what he needs, and he’s gone.

 

*

 

He stands at his front gate, smoking and staring up at the house. His house. His home? The place he sleeps in. It feels dead, so his brothers are either asleep or they both pulled as well, and are off doing whatever they do. Either way it’ll be quiet in there, and the thought of it is actually unbearable. Jim craves quiet in his mind, or at least the good kind of noise. He’s not going to get either tonight, and the thought of trying to sleep and failing, only to wake up to yet another monotonous day with Stevie and Davy just makes him want to batter the walls until his fists bleed. He sucks in a sharp lungful of smoke, and sees Carl behind his eyes. Tiny, blue-and-white Carl. A perfect murder. Until - - 

Jim stretches his neck until it pops, and shakes his head back and forth, willing the noise to calm down from its scream. It’s a broken banshee wail, a thousand untuned violins. His clothes feel too tight in places, and like they’re not there in others. Like his legs don’t exist below the knee, but his shirt is clinging to his chest and the collar keeps touching his neck. He has to get inside and get clean, but there are _other people_ in there, and he can’t, he _can’t._

He breathes for ten minutes, focusing on the deep in-and-out. By the time it’s under control, his mind is made up. Walk in, walk up the stairs, run the bath. Scrub teeth. Pack clothes, take passport and money. Get clean. Get dressed. Leave. The simplest of plans, but that’s good; tasks easy enough to be heard under the noise, and get him through the door and out again. Twenty minutes, that’s all. And then there’ll be freedom, if only for a couple of days. The right kind of freedom, and that’s all he needs on nights like this. The hope that one day soon, all of this will drop away. It’ll be like it never happened. He will never think of it again. 

 

*

 

_London. 1993._

 

 

Sherlock’s grown since he last saw him. Not just his body - which Jim estimates will stop at exactly six feet - but in hair, and in attitude, and in _problems_. It makes his mouth water. It makes his fingers twitch, and something inside rear up and reach out, in a way he has never felt before. It is…he has no word for what it is. It’s not fear, though he’s not sure what that feels like either. It’s a bit like being high; filled with light and flying, but this is more dangerous because the iron grip in which he holds his mind is strangely weakened, as if it withers under the taste of yearning. The manic edge brought on by Carl is not soothed by proximity to Sherlock. Quite the opposite. It’s painful, and awful, and wonderful. It burns away the thirty-six hours without sleep. It burns away everything. 

Jim remembers to blink. A man passes carrying a suitcase. The edge of it knocks his foot, and brings the world rushing back. A London street, cars, an intermittent stream of boys being let in and out of the school gates. It’s Saturday, and morning classes are long over. The sports teams have returned from their matches. Day passes have been issued, and some are returning from an afternoon in the city. Cinema trips and museum outings for the younger boarders, supervised by whatever adult. These hoards of young bluebloods, chattering and laughing, assured of their status and superiority by the designer clothes they wear. By their shiny, well-cut hair, and handheld video games, and Sony Discmans, and their names; titles; friends.

And in their midst; Sherlock Holmes. He’s tall, and gangly, and far too thin. He’s also on his own, and Jim is so pleased to see it he actually feels dizzy. Among all these boys with their gadgets and tedious normality, Sherlock walks with a book in his hand. He’s dressed well, in clean jeans and a well-pressed shirt, but his hair is a disaster of black curls and there’s dirt under his fingernails. His trainers are ancient. He’s pale enough to look unhealthy. From across the street, Jim can’t tell what he’s reading but he already knows he must find out. It’s suddenly the most important thing in the world.

He pushes off the lamppost he’s been leaning on, and wanders along his side of the street, leaving Sherlock to the other. He spares a modicum of attention for where he’s going, not touching any of the people passing the opposite way, hands in his pockets, watching from under the protection of his hooded jumper. The rest of him is focused entirely on Sherlock, and part of him wants him to feel the weight of his gaze; is desperate for him to pause, and come to a halt, and look up from his book so he may discover who’s watching. What would that be like? To have him look around, and for those eyes to search all these blank faces until they fell on the one that’s actually interesting. Would he recognise what he saw? Would they stare at each other from across the road, and would he just _know_? That Jim is out there. That he knows he exists. That there’s someone else.

But Sherlock doesn’t look around. He’s absorbed in his reading to the extent that other people brush his arms and shoulders. He makes no attempt to move around other pedestrians, and every time one of them touches him Jim winces, as though it’s his clothes they’ve come into contact with. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice, or care. His feet catch on the edge of uneven paving stones, and he’s oblivious to the tutting and dark looks that come from people forced to move out of his way. Jim likes that he doesn’t care, but it’s also strangely unimpressive that he’d allow them to get that close. Jim could walk up behind him. He could touch his arm. He could even - in some fantasy world where such mundanities were possible - try and engage him in conversation. Ask him what he’s reading. Get him to say his name, so he’d finally know what the words sound like out of his mouth, instead of just rolled off an Irish tongue. He’s only heard Sherlock speak once, and the memory of his voice has long since burned a hole in his brain, removing some part of rational thought with regard to this boy. It’s a phenomenon Jim examines with equal parts wonder and glee; that there’s a person in the world who both inspires the ultimate in rational thinking, and lets his madness play. Because Jim does know he’s mad. His behaviour is not what any of the normal people would call sane. But that’s their problem, because it’s not his fault the world is not built at a speed that makes it bearable. If they can’t keep up, what’s he supposed to do? Dumb himself down to accommodate them? It’ll never happen. He _can’t_. 

Sherlock is heading towards Vauxhall Bridge. Jim speeds up a little as they cross the water, keeping twenty feet behind and shielded by other people walking. There are more surveillance cameras in London than in Dublin, and while he’s here he’s going to update his database on their expansion and usage, as well as a few other key details. But that can wait. This is more important, and everything depends on his ability to pull himself away from Sherlock anyway. He knows the school breaks for summer next Friday. The temptation to just stay and then follow him home to Sussex is so strong, he can taste it in his mouth. He could stay the summer, couldn't he? Watch a Holmes in his natural habitat, with that family that makes Jim hate him so much he just wants to dig his fingers through his skull, into that brain, and lay it out for dissection. The mental image of it makes him bite on his finger to stifle a flare of…something, some fire, some need he hasn’t yet identified. Sherlock makes so many things unknown, and it’s for that reason he can never stay away.

They cross through the dark shadow of MI6 headquarters, Jim keeping his eyes lowered for the first time. Sherlock is a pale blotch moving at the edge of his peripheral vision. If he’s aware of - literal - Big Brother watching him, it doesn’t show. Jim figures the chances of Mycroft actually being in the building are probably quite small, because minor civil servants congregate at Whitehall and that’s what Holmes the Elder’s official position is. But Jim also knows that Mycroft is twenty-three and even more clever than his little brother, which means he’ll inevitably have branched out by now. His talents will definitely be commandeered by the security services, when he’s not embroiled in the petty squabbles of government. Jim’s seized by the desire to grin and wave at a camera, just to let them know he knows they’re watching. Maybe hold up a sign that says _hi, Mycroft_ , so he can imagine the look of confusion on the idiot’s face when he’s shown. He won’t, obviously. But he is definitely looking forward to the day he and big brother come face to face. 

Sherlock turns off the bridge with the same lack of care he’s demonstrated this whole walk. He obviously knows where he’s going, so he must have taken this journey before. He’s inattentive because he doesn’t have to think about directions, and he’s not walking aimlessly. It’s obvious, because Sherlock doesn’t do anything without reason, and if there weren’t somewhere he wanted to be he would have stayed in school with his book. If he were mapping the city, he wouldn’t be reading. No, this is a regular trip, and Jim spares one thought from his reading matter and uses it to wonder where he’d be going at this time on a Saturday evening. He’s got ninety minutes before he has to be back in school. They’ve been walking for twenty. He can’t be going to meet a friend, because he would have left earlier. Can’t be going to a film, and it’s unlikely he’d come this far for dinner when it’ll be served up at school as soon as the doors lock at curfew. But it doesn’t really matter, because wherever he’s going, Jim is following. Never mind that he hasn’t eaten since dinner yesterday, and he hasn’t got himself anywhere to sleep yet. Not important. 

They pass off the main road. Jim lays London out in his mind. There’s not much in this area for a sixteen year old boy to _do_ , especially one like Sherlock. They seem to be heading towards Vauxhall Park, with the railway station on their right. But Sherlock turns again before reaching the green space, and something tightens in Jim’s gut as he heads, inexorably, towards the Arches. His mind pulls away from what he might be reading, and he looks him over again. Cautiously now, and from a greater distance because there are fewer people to hide behind. He tries to clear his mind of all the other things that crowd in when he thinks of Sherlock; their shared past, known to only one of them. The possibilities of him, individually and together. The sensation of his mind, and what it might be. Jim is not capable of divorcing himself from these things but he can try, and he does because there are almost no logical reasons for Sherlock to be in this place, at this time, unless…unless there’s a new reason why he’s so pale, and so thin, and so inattentive to the world around him. The tight sensation curls into a vague sense of dread, and Jim’s pace quickens on its own. He has to know, now. He has to _see_. 

Sherlock walks into darkness with his head buried in a book. He raises his eyes only when there’s not light enough to read. He doesn’t put the book away, he just closes it in one hand, with a finger stuck between the pages to keep his place. Jim hides behind a brick arch and watches him stride down the middle of the walkway, making no attempt to hide himself or his face, or the reason he’s here. Jim allows himself to hope that means he’s _not_ here for that, but the cool, derisive voice at the back of his mind tells him he’s being stupid. To use his logic. To not be _dumb_. But Jim wants to be stupid about Sherlock; has always liked the fact there’s someone in the world who can make him act in ways he never would for anyone else.

‘Oi.’

A quiet voice from the dark. Sherlock stops, and turns his head. Half-shadowed, Jim can see every angle of his profile, and for a moment his breath stops, halted by the vision of what this boy could become. It’s the arrogance of his turn, and the imperious stare of a superior being. A straight back, set shoulders; the expression of a king surveying the breadth of his domain.

And then it melts into a childish smile, and Jim blinks. The vision shimmers to nothing as Sherlock sticks his hand awkwardly into his pocket, and brings it out holding cash. He walks a few steps out of view but returns almost immediately, pushing something small and unseen into the breast pocket of his shirt. He turns, and Jim retreats silently, truth dawning a horror through every thought. It’s hard to breathe, and his legs feel weak. He doesn’t fight it, and lets his back slide down the filthy wall until he’s on the ground, his knees tight up to his chest. 

Sherlock is buying drugs. Sherlock is-

Jim blinks at his jeans, inches from his face. His hood covers his head, and his sleeve masks the way his fingertips dig into the meat of his thigh. He is a ball with skin nothing can penetrate; a black hole in his centre, pulling himself in. Sherlock is a drug addict. Sherlock is  _(a drug addict)_ walking past, three feet away. The cover of his book passes around eye level, and Jim’s gaze flicks right even as he feels himself internally recoil, wanting, for the first time, to get _away_ from this person.

 _Greatest Unsolved Mysteries of our Time_. That’s what he’s reading. And five minutes ago, Jim would have exulted, would have been filled with joy at the sight, and the knowledge that Sherlock is doing what he’s supposed to. He would have been unable to sleep tonight, knowing that the boy with the laser mind is following a route that might, some day, allow their paths to cross. 

Now he just feels nothing. Sherlock is a drug addict. _Sherlock is a drug addict_. If it were a casual thing, he could get it from boys at school. To come down here with that much money, on his own…it’s not occasional use, and he doesn’t intend to share. Sherlock is a drug addict. Sherlock is not controlling his mind. He’s attempting to drown it, and for long, long minutes, Jim thinks he knows how Carl must have felt in his final moments. The first hint of seizure leading to anxiety, and then fear, then panic, and then the crushing, inexorable certainty that there’s no escape, and he'll never reach the surface.

Jim sits in the dark, allowing the damp to seep into his clothes. Sherlock is not rising above the world, and shaping it to his desires. He’s letting it drown him. And now Jim’s drowning too, made helpless by the sudden removal of hope. Sherlock is being ordinary. In the universe of Jim’s swirling mind, there is nothing more awful. Nothing more sad. Nothing more unforgivable. 

For the first time in five years, Jim has no desire to watch. He lets him go, and makes no attempt to follow.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP).
> 
> Song: Halsey - Young God


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

_Feel like my soul has turned into steel_

_I've still got the scars that the sun didn't let me heal_

_There's not even room enough to be anywhere_

_It's not dark yet, but it's getting there_

 

 

_Sussex. 1989._

 

 

‘The police counsellor’s coming again this afternoon. I know it’s important, but it buggers up my O Level prep something fierce. I wouldn’t mind, if at least two of them weren't using it as an excuse to get out of the lesson.’

‘You can’t say that!’

‘I bloody can. They’re all three years older than Carl. I don’t think they even knew him.’

Mr Harrison, Jimmy knows, has never had the most optimistic opinion of human nature. He quite likes him, as much as he likes anyone. The man makes these lunchtime surveillance forays halfway interesting, which almost makes up for getting dust and cobwebs all over his clothes. There has to be more efficient ways of listening in than climbing into the space above the ceiling tiles, though he does quite enjoy the cat-and-mouse with the school caretaker, who seems to think there are legions of boys hiding in the walls, and is getting irate about it.

‘One of his brothers is in year four, though. They all know him.’

Harrison huffs, and pours boiling water over his tea bag. All the cups in the staff room look disgusting, cracked and stained brown through years of being touched by these boring mouths. 

‘I suppose. But it’s not like they’ve seen him.’

‘They’ll be back after the funeral.’

‘Yes yes, I know. It’s fine. But it’s given them all a good excuse if they end up failing their exams, and I’ll get it in the neck if that happens.’

Jimmy tunes out, and rolls to his back. The funeral. The swimming team are all going to go. It’s been decided, as if a show of solidarity will make any difference to Carl now. Mr Mason, the PE teacher, told them they didn’t have to come if they didn’t want to. But it would mean a lot to Carl’s _family_ , another thing that doesn’t make sense. They’ll be too caught in grief to notice, and it’s not like any of the team have met his mum and dad. But this is, apparently, as much a part of death as the dead themselves. It’s interesting. He’d always assumed the worst thing you could do to someone is kill them, and if people were asked they’d probably say the same thing. But Jimmy’s always prepared to admit when he’s wrong, and learn from it. Nothing that’s happening now has any bearing on Carl at all. It’s all about the people left behind. So that’s something to think about, and take into consideration if a death becomes necessary again; that a greater punishment might be to leave someone with loss. He supposes it depends on the person, and what they’ve done wrong. Definitely a thing to consider.

‘I’ve heard there’s been a headache about this.’

‘About what?’

Miss Addams’ voice is curious only because she fancies Harrison. Jimmy’s been listening all week, and has charted their journey through shocked numbness, to acceptance, to kind of wishing they could talk about something else. Not that any of the teachers have been callous, at all, but it seems shepherding six hundred children through shock and grief is taking a toll.

‘The investigation. I mean, not really a headache, but definitely something the police don’t need. Janet was talking to them yesterday.’

‘ _What_ , Glen?’

‘Apparently some kid has been shouting that it wasn’t an accident. That Carl was murdered.’

Jimmy blinks at the pipes a foot above.

‘You’re not serious.’

‘Yeah, that’s what Janet said. But it’s true. Some boy from - - oh I don’t know, somewhere. He read about it in the paper, and went snooping around and now he’s got it in his head it was done deliberately.’

Jimmy has no thoughts. This is twice in one week he's had no thoughts. And there’s a weird sensation of not being able to feel his body, as though something disconnected and now he’s just…here. Listening to this.

‘That’s absurd. Not one of ours? Not - he wasn’t at the gala when it happened?’

‘No no. I think they said he was from one of the public schools, or something. He only read about it.’

‘The papers all said it was natural causes, though. Why would he think it wasn’t?’

‘Janet asked that. Something about the shoes being missing. The boy’s got a bee in his bonnet about it. Janet said, y’know, things go missing from changing rooms all the time…’

The shoes.

‘…and it’s not like we can ask Carl what he did with them. Someone probably nicked them before it happened, and now it just looks odd given…well, what happened.’

The _shoes_.

Jimmy forces his brain to recognise his body, and turns back onto his front. Miss Addams has two hands wrapped around her coffee mug, her expression overly confused in order to encourage Harrison to keep speaking. To convince him he’s the most fascinating man in the room. Harrison is oblivious, stirring his tea.

The shoes, though. And a boy. What boy? 

‘The police aren’t taking it seriously, surely? Are they? They can’t be. The post mortem was clear.’

‘Oh no, they’re not taking it seriously. They told Janet they’d had to speak to the boy’s parents, and hoped that’d be an end of it. Not good for Carl’s family, is it? That sort of thought put in their heads?’

‘No, I expect it would be awful. They should tell this kid to stop it. It’ll only make it worse. At least with natural causes-‘

‘-what?’

Miss Addams shifts from one foot to the other. People get awkward talking about grief, Jimmy’s noticed. As if they’re conscious that it might seem they’re telling other people how they ought to feel. Kids don’t worry about such things. They say _you should be sorry for saying that_ , and expect it to be so. Jimmy hates them, because he’s never sorry for the things he says. 

‘-well, it’s just. When it’s natural, you know there’s nothing that could be done. It would’ve happened no matter what. Telling his mum that someone killed him - that’s just cruel.’

Harrison shrugs, as he searches the fridge for another bottle of milk. ‘Yeah. Well, obviously. But no one’s listening to this boy. Have we got any chocolate biscuits left?’

‘Hang on, I’ll look.’

Jimmy tunes out again, and rests his chin on his hands. _He’s_ listening to this boy, whoever and wherever he may be. As far as he knows, no one else has thought to wonder about Carl’s trainers, which are currently wrapped in plastic, and boxed up in the rafters of the garage at home. No one ever goes through the junk up there, and even if they did, so what? He can admit to stealing them at the gala, because he was still in the changing room when Carl went out for his first race and there are any number of witnesses who’ll remember it. No one’s going to test the shoes for poison. They’ll just tell him off if they ever find them, which they won’t. 

But this boy. Why would he notice? Why would he be interested? Someone who wasn’t even there; who only read about it in the newspaper, but just happened to pick up on the _one_ detail that could be dreamt up as suspicious.

Jimmy’s not sure what he feels about it, but he does know he feels _something._ And it’s not rage, and it’s not boredom, and it’s not the kind of resigned despair that seems to colour every day he lives. What it is…what it is, is something _new_.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

 

‘…yeah, hang on. Jimmy? Phone.’

Jim rolls his eyes up at the hand thrust through the hatch from the kitchen. He doesn’t move to take the receiver, and just shakes his head and goes back to staring at the TV. He catches Davy’s glance from the other sofa though, the ones he and Stevie don’t think he’s paying attention to. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to them he’s only pretending he doesn’t see.

‘Jimmy. _Phone_.’

Stevie’s tone brooks no argument. If only that type of intimidation worked on him. He grudgingly supposes he can’t be surprised Stevie thinks it _does_ , because he’s been pretending so for four years now. But he’s sick of pretending, and can’t seem to drag a facade of caring up over his face. His mind is not in this tedious room, but it’s not anywhere else either. With Sherlock, maybe, but there’s no need for that anymore, is there? There’s only a void where that hope once lived.

‘Oi.’ Stevie is in the doorway, the phone wire stretched around from the hook on the kitchen wall. Jim closes his eyes and waits, and jolts appropriately when the hand swipes across his head in a sharp cuff. ‘Don’t be so fucking ignorant. It’s a Professor Foster. Talk to the man.’

Oh, right. That. Jim breathes out, and waves a hand at Davy to get him to mute the TV. Then he does take the phone, because there’s only so much he’s capable of fucking up before it’ll drive him mad.

‘Professor Foster.’

‘Hello, James. We had an appointment this afternoon.’

‘We did. I’m sorry, I forgot about it.’

The pause at the other end says this is - by a very large margin - not an acceptable excuse. ‘You forgot.’

‘Yes.’

Another pause. Jim imagines all the things that normal people say at this point. _I agreed to meet you as a favour_ , and _the grant money we’ve thrown at you is based on my recommendation of your potential_ , et cetera. He hopes this conversation isn’t going to be so obvious.

‘If you miss another one, I won’t meet you again.’

A corner of his mouth turns up. ‘Understood, Professor. I do apologise.’

Foster makes a quiet humming noise, which Jim takes to mean he’s on probation from here on out. This is good, even if it’s also a drag he doesn’t feel equipped to manage today. He doesn’t want appointments. He doesn’t want people. He wants the world to disappear, preferably in a lot of noise and fire. 

‘Then shall we say tomorrow, at one o clock?’

‘That’ll be fine. Thank you, Professor.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

Jim holds the phone out in Stevie’s direction, without looking at him. It’s an overtly rude gesture, but it’s not like either of them gave him privacy for the conversation. Stevie snatches it out of his hand, hangs it up and comes back into the doorway. Jim can feel him glaring, and has no desire to look up and see it.

‘What was that, then?’

He counts the beats of his breath. In, and out. 

‘Someone helping with my supervision.’

‘And you had an appointment, and just didn’t turn up for it? Fuck’s sake, Jimmy. You’ve been moping around for three days, and you’re missing stuff you’re supposed to be doing? You’re a lazy sod.’

Sometimes Stevie sounds so much like their dad, Jim wants to stick a knife in his throat. And calling _him_ lazy is laughable. But Jim will not give him the satisfaction of reacting, so he just leans his head on his hand and goes back to watching TV. He has no idea what’s on. He wonders what Sherlock’s doing, and his mind supplies evening prep in boarding-school halls, a formal dinner maybe, and then hours of taking coke, or heroin, or speed, in a dark toilet stall, or in the back of an empty classroom. Or is he old enough to have his own room? He’ll be in the Lower Sixth, so he might. Maybe he sits on his own and gets high. He won’t do it with friends. He doesn’t have friends. Just like Jim doesn’t have friends, and the thought makes disappointment spear through his chest again, and leave him momentarily short of breath.

And then, Stevie’s face is an inch from his. Jim arrives back in the room, and the awareness of his brother’s smoke-edged breath pushing over his cheek and lips. He almost recoils, but forces himself still at the last second.

‘Jimmy, I am _talking_. To _you._ ’

Jim blinks slowly. Stevie is far too close. How fucking dare he. But he doesn’t move.

‘What’s _wrong_ with you? You’ve hardly said a word in three days, and now it’s like you’re not even here.’

Something breaks in his head.

It’s the strangest sensation; a gentle _snap_ that’s almost audible, a physical knowledge of something no longer whole. He doesn’t know what it is, but he does know what it means. A second after it happens, a feeling of pure hatred wells up through his chest like a tar spring bubbling up and breaking out of the earth; thick, and black, and burning hot. It chokes his throat as it rises, and the only way to stop it heading straight to his brain and boiling it alive is to open his mouth, and let it out.

‘If you don’t get out of my face,’ he says, in the mildest, most conversational tone, ‘I’ll dig your eyeball out with a spoon.’

There's a quiet gasp in the background that can only come from Davy. Jim doesn’t blink. Stevie does, but Jim doesn’t move, and he doesn’t laugh it off, and Stevie - for perhaps the only time in his life - seems to understand that it is not a joke.

‘-what?’

It’s a whisper. Jim’s never heard him sound uncertain before; not when they were kids; not later; not even when their parents asked him what happened the night he fell down the stairs, and he said he couldn’t remember. He didn't have to sound uncertain, because the concussion was bad enough to ensure no memory could survive. 

‘You heard me.’

And this is when Stevie would normally hit him, or laugh and tell him to fuck off, or ruffle his hair. But Jim doesn’t feel like he could breathe if he wanted to, because the air is too thick to make it into his lungs. So thick even Stevie can feel it. Feel…something. Something that Jim hasn't allowed out around his family for four years. 

Stevie moves back. He stands straight. Jim looks up at him without moving his head, and watches his oldest brother lick his lip. And then glance once to Davy, before muttering, ‘Got to get ready anyway. You comin’, Dave?’

He walks out of the room. Davy stands up in careful silence. Jim diverts his eyes to the TV. He fully expects to be left alone in seconds, so it’s a bit of a surprise when Davy pauses in the doorway.

‘You’re slipping.’

It’s for their ears only. Jim rolls his eyes up to catch Davy’s, two pairs identical in every way, staring into each other with the recognition that’s always been there. But Davy is pale-faced and his gaze is worried, bordering on afraid. Jim knows his is not like that. He thinks it might be black, burning with the hate that’s throbbing red noise through his ears.

He says nothing. He lets Davy look at him, the real him, for a long, long second. Then he gives one slow blink, and when his eyes open again they’re pointed at the television. Davy hovers for an uneasy second, then disappears. 

Jim allows one smile. Then Sherlock comes back to mind, the room vanishes, and there's nothing to smile about any more.

 

*

 

_Sussex. 1989._

 

 

The unnamed boy has become The Boy. Until today, when he becomes Sherlock Holmes.

As it turns out, he’s a strange-looking thing. He’s got a stretched look to him; a child on the first precipice of adolescence. He’s skinny and not very tall, and his hair is a curly disgrace. His face is too thin, and his eyes too far apart. His cheeks - just like Jim’s - hold the remnants of pre-pubescent puppy fat, giving him an unfinished air. A round jaw without any kind of definition. But the edge of cheekbones suggest that’s going to change and anyway, it doesn’t matter. Jim doesn’t care what he looks like. He only cares that this is the boy who, probably without believing it himself, is holding the one available key to murder.

Jim sits in the bus stop across from the main school gate, and watches. He can see the playground from here, so he stays even when all the kids have gone inside. He stays through morning break, and lunch time, and afternoon break as well. All for a few brief glimpses of The Boy. Sherlock Holmes.

He doesn’t have any friends. He sits on a wall with a book, while every space around him is filled with boys playing football, and marbles, and throwing balls against the side of the school building. The playground is a yelling mass of posh kids letting off steam, except this tiny oasis of silence on the very edge of it all. Jim is transfixed. He feels that if he sat here for a while and pushed his thoughts through the chaos, they’d reach that circle of quiet and just…reach out. That Sherlock might hear them, and look up and _understand_. Because Jim can tune out other people just like Sherlock’s doing right now, right there in front of his eyes. He’s never met anyone who can do that before. He’s never conceived there could be anyone in the world like him.

He wants to go and talk to him. He wants it so much, he can taste it in his mouth. It’s thick on his tongue, like the rage of blood after another unbearable episode has made him batter and scream in silence, leaving him slumped and sobbing on the floor. He wants to stand up and float through the crowd, unseen and untouched, and stand in front of Sherlock Holmes and think it again: _you’re just like me. And now I’ve found you_. And Sherlock would hear past the words in his book, and look up, and just for a moment there’d be confusion and disbelief. And then he’d _know_ , and he’d smile, and it would be oil on stormy water, a ray of sunlight bursting through thunderclouds. No one in the playground would be able to see them. They’d stand there and look at each other, and there would be no need for words. Jim could be calm, and the fury would go away. It would no longer matter that the world was stupid.

‘Are you getting on, or what?’

He turns his head towards the noise. There’s a bus, and its doors are open. The driver glares down at him, his hat cocked onto the back of his head, chewing gum in yellowed teeth. Jim opens his mouth to say _no,_ but then a bell rings and the world explodes back into hues of grey, and black. It’s two o clock, and he has to get back to his own school so he can arrive home at the proper time. Normality floods his body, and it’s an effort to nod and even more to drag himself upright.

‘Bloody ‘ell, I haven’t got all day. Come _on_.’

Jim drops fifty pence into the coin tray, and finds a seat by the window facing the school. The kids are lining up to go back inside. Sherlock Holmes is at the back of the first queue, still engrossed in his book. Someone shoves past him to reach friends standing in front, and Sherlock doesn’t move, or acknowledge the touch or say a word. He just stumbles forward one step, rights himself and continues to read.

Jim watches him long after the bus has turned the corner, and the school is out of sight. It’s easy. All he has to do is close his eyes. He stands there, waiting. The Boy. Sherlock Holmes. 

 

*

 

 _Dublin. 1993_.

 

 

Jim presses his finger into the doorbell, and leaves it there. The shrill clang goes on, and on, and on, echoing through a house that doesn’t look empty enough to satisfy him there’s no one home. He’s proved right after a minute, when a shape appears at the top of the hallway stairs, and starts to descend.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming, shut the fuck up!’

He doesn’t release the bell until the door flings open. Then his arm falls to his side, and he smiles. ‘Hello, Peter.’

‘What are the fuck are you doing here? How’d you get my address?’

Boring. Jim steps up close, and runs his eyes up and down Peter’s body. Shorts, vest, messy hair. He tuts quietly. ‘Asleep at this time of the evening? I didn’t think you were eighty years old.’

‘Jamie, what the hell are you doing here?’

Still boring. He takes another step, forcing Peter to move back and let him in, or risk getting walked straight into. And it’s an option, refusing entry; Jim can feel Peter hesitate as his brain tries to get out of sleep and up to speed, but he yields at the last second, and steps aside.

‘So this is where you live. Don’t you ever hoover?’

The carpet needs sorting out. He doesn’t care. He turns left into the front room, and surveys it. Boring. Boring boring boring. He needs more than _this_. So he turns to face Peter, and can hardly bear the energy throbbing through his blood, threatening to make him burst.

‘We’re supposed to be meeting on Friday. Why are you here?’

‘Couldn’t bear to be away from you, obviously. You’re taking me out.’

‘I am not.’

‘Yes, you are.’ Jim sing-songs this gently and tilts his head, watching realisation dawn over Peter’s face.

‘Christ. What have you taken?’

‘What do you _think_ I’ve taken?’

‘How should I know? I don’t care, kid. I’m not taking you anywhere.’

‘Wrong again.’ Jim walks in close and looks up at him, close enough so the front of his shirt brushes the wrinkles of Peter’s vest. He bats his eyelids in a faux-coquettish show, and pouts just a little. ‘So very wrong. But first, guess what I’ve taken.’

Peter sighs. ‘From the state of your eyes - speed.’

‘Nope.’

‘Ecstasy.’

‘Nope.’

‘Jamie, I’m not in the-‘

‘ _Guess_.’

‘…coke, then.’

Jim makes the sound of a wrong-answer buzzer, and puts his hands on Peter’s waist. ‘All out of tries, darling. I win. You’re taking me out.’

‘No.’

‘Yeeeeeeees. Yes, yes you are. Or I’ll te-ellllll.’

Peter frowns, and steps back out of the grasp of his hands. ‘Tell what?’

Jim laughs and closes his eyes, swaying his head from side to side, in time with the music in his head. ‘You know.’

‘I know you’re off your tits, and you woke me up after twenty-four hours awake. How the fuck did you find out where I live?’

‘Frank told me, obviously.’ Not true, but it was in his book. ‘And I bet there’s a lot of people you don’t want to know this address. So be a good boy, and go and get your clothes on.’

‘Jamie, I’m not taking you anywhere.’

‘Yes. You _are!_ ’ Jim yells it without meaning to and finds himself half an inch from Peter’s face, glaring into deep blue eyes. ‘Because I say so. Because I know things about you, Peter Boyd. I know things you’ve done. I know where your son goes to school. I know what happened to his mother.’

Peter is entirely still for a second, and then his mouth sets to a line. But he doesn’t say no anymore, and that’s good, that’s very good. Jim laughs softly, and pats his cheek.

‘Good boy. Goooood boy. D’you know why I came, darling?’

‘I’ve asked you already.’

‘Because from tomorrow, I’m going to be a good boy too. Such a good boy. I’m going back to school, and I’m going to do all my work, and I’m going to make everyone so _pleased_.’

‘ - -good? That sounds-‘

‘Shut up.’ Jim’s eyes fall closed of their own accord, and there’s a hollow scream inside his mind, echoing and bouncing off the thoughts that can never be still. His head twitches to the side, and a burn starts up at the back of his eyes. He’s going to behave. Yes. He’ll be good. ‘I don’t need your input. I need you to shut up, get dressed, and take me out. But because I’m a benevolent and wise leader, I will give you an alternative.’

‘You’re not my leader. Jesus, what _did_ you take?’

‘Oh, but I am.’ His mouth splits in a grin. He can’t seem to help it. ‘Choice number two is that we stay in, and you fuck me ’til I’m right again. How’s that for kind of me?’

‘Jamie-‘

‘I said shut up. Choice one, or two. I’m not leaving without one of them, and if you try and force me, guess who’s going to have to move house in the morning?’

He holds Peter’s gaze. He can pinpoint the exact moment the man realises there’s no way he’s getting out of this. It comes a fraction of a second before he sighs, his shoulders drop, and he says, ‘one drink.’

‘We’ll stay as long as I say. Go and get dressed.’

Peter searches his face. Jim lets him look, rocking ever so slightly on the balls of his feet. It makes his head undulate, and the room swing on the edges of his vision. Peter’s face remains firmly in focus; chisel-jawed, blue-eyed, with a shadow of beard Jim would quite like to lick. 

‘All right,’ he says eventually, but doesn’t move away. Jim smiles, and bites into his own lower lip.

‘Guess what I took.’

He’s laughing, still soft. Peter looks confused, and shakes his head. ‘Marijuana? You look fucked. Your eyes-‘

But Jim’s still laughing, and laughing, and it’s so funny how stupid these people are. These people, that he’s going to have to live among forever and ever, because there’s no one else and nothing else, and this is as good as it gets.

‘I didn’t take anything,’ he says, like it should be obvious. ‘This is me. You _idiot_.’

‘…Jesus fucking Christ. Jamie-‘

It’s whispered, and that might be fear but it’s almost like wonder. Jim lets him look his fill, and then takes one step closer, so he’s resting against the packed muscle of Peter’s lean chest.

‘My name’s _Jim_. And make no mistake - from here on out, you’re going to do whatever I say.’

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP).
> 
> Song: Bob Dylan - Not Dark Yet


	9. Chapter 9

 

_Feel the fury closing in_

_All resistance wearing thin_

_Nowhere to run from all of this havoc_

_Nowhere to hide from all of this_

_madness, madness, madness_

 

 

 

_Dublin. 1993._

  

The city floats past once again, a landscape painting of two dimensional objects, faces appearing as blobs of pink on top of finger smudges of colour. Jim leans his head on the ledge of the open window and lets sticky summer air glide over his extended hand at thirty miles an hour, heat so thick he feels he could close his fingers and hold it in his palm. It’s like he’s watching it all from inside a glass bubble; detached from his body, detached from everything, and glad of it. To be stuck in the reality of the moment would be unbearable tonight; every few minutes a thought threatens to drag him back to earth and every part of his body and mind recoils. Reality can wait until tomorrow, when the bubble is gone and he’s stuck in a 2-D world forever. Tonight is going to be _fun_.

‘There’s a pub-‘

‘We’re not going to the pub.’ 

‘You said you wanted to go out.’

‘We are out.’ 

The pause following this is also unbearable. It lets in the sound of another of Peter’s mournful songs; music that pulls to mind the bayous of Louisiana, and its wet, clinging heat; old men in black suits and older guitars, bugs and singing frogs, sleepless nights while you tangle alone in twisted sheets, breaking your heart over some woman. Jim closes his eyes and puts himself in the air brushing his forehead, making his hair pull back as the car drifts through lifeless streets. He imagines himself floating upwards, up and up until the heat falls away, and the noise disappears; until it’s cold and black, endless, pristine; until it’s just him and the stars, a drop of warm blood at the centre of infinity. 

The image hurts. He smiles. And then there’s a hand shaking his shoulder, and concern in Peter’s voice.

‘Jamie. Jim. Are you sure you didn’t take anything?’

‘Cross my heart, and hope to die.’

He sing-songs this in a whisper, the words breaking him open with their banality. Words everyone knows, and everyone uses, and so _boring;_ so very, very, boring.

‘Right. Well. Where are we going, then?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘I’m not just driving you around.’

‘I didn’t say you were. I said we’re going nowhere.’ Explaining makes his head ache. Everything feels heavy. But no, fuck this. _No_. He is going to enjoy himself, because no one else is going to make anything fun, so he’ll have to do it himself.

He straightens up in his seat, and brings his knees to his chest so he can rest his feet on the dashboard.

‘We’re going to pick up some of your friends. Any you like. Five will do it. Tell them they’ll get a hundred quid each for an hour’s work.’

‘What do you want them for?’

Peter sounds unsure. Also, like he thinks Jim isn’t fully serious, or doesn’t really know what he’s talking about. The tone of his voice grates over Jim’s nerves, peeling a layer off to leave them red and raw, and he has to take a deep breath before he answers.

‘They’re going to create a diversion. If they’re clever boys, they’ll even manage not to get arrested - though that’s on them. I’m not responsible for how fast they can run, or how quick they think. If there’s anyone you hate, bring them along and let them get caught.’

Silence, for four bars of yet another blues tune. Jim adds a counterpoint melody in his head, and turns it into an electric beat. It’s almost a shame when Peter pipes up, and ruins it. 

‘You didn’t say we’d be working. I don’t do any job without knowing what’s going on.’

‘But you _will._ Because if you don’t, I will fuck you over so hard you’ll wish it was you Frank Kavanagh wanted to bend over a chair. You’d take that a thousand times over what I’ll do to you if you try to get out of this.’

‘…you say you know things. You haven’t proved you do.’

Jim smiles again, and watches his fingers wiggle through the air outside the window. ‘Shall we talk about Eamon, then? He’s sixteen, like me, just like you said. He’s at Blackrock, so…what? He should be sitting his exams about now. After all you’ve paid to keep him there, I bet you don’t want his concentration messed up by daddy getting arrested. _Again_.’

Peter’s eyes slide sideways, and his mouth is once more a thin, hard line. Jim grins and snaps a finger forward. ‘Keep it on the road, darlin’. You’re carrying precious cargo.’

Two beats; three; and Peter turns his attention forward. Jim rests his head back on the seat, and takes a cigarette from his pocket. ‘Does it not yank your chain, Peter? You a good Prod boy, all big and proud with your UVF mates, and now your boy’s at a Catholic school-‘

‘-you’ve made your point-’

‘-working for a bunch of bastards who profit off everything you said you stood against-‘

‘Shut _up_ , Jim.’

Jim chuckles, and lights his fag. Peter’s police file was thick, and interesting, but he has the feeling there’s a few pertinent details it failed to mention. He can’t say how he knows, or at least heavily suspects. It’s like everything else in life; there’s the information on the page, and there’s the person it’s written about, and then there’s everything that isn’t said, or spoken. But the lines of that silence stretch out anyway, connecting with their logical points and he can see it all, every bit, every thread that weaves out, and around, and through, and where they link and where they break. There are dark spots here and there, because he hasn’t met all the people and seen how they work yet. But Frank’s book gave him names and places, and they entered his head and now sit under Dublin’s physical landscape in his mind, connected by lines that shimmer blue like an electric web of the underground, a living organism underneath the streets people walk everyday, oblivious and blind. He can’t unsee it. He doesn’t want to.

He turns his hand, making a wall of his palm. Hot air hits it, finds it unyielding, and alters its path to move out of its way. The car turns towards the northside and Jim tilts his head, stretching his neck until the tendon pops. The tape churns out another tale of woe; another old man with a broken heart, lamenting lost love. Jim closes his eyes and sinks into his mind, away from all of this, falling down and down to where it’s cold, and black, and nothing up here matters.

 

*

 

‘Jami… _Jim_ , I don’t like this.’

The city centre after midnight is not dead quiet, but it’s not busy either. The side street they’re parked in is silent, almost pitch black, and Jim is thrumming with repressed energy. Having Peter sit beside him is almost too much; the pressure of another body rubbing uncomfortably against softly singing nerves. He breathes in through his nose, and doesn’t think. He doesn’t have to. He’s had this plan in place for almost a year, but he didn’t have manpower before. Now there are five men parked two streets away, and all he has to do is give in to the rush of the inevitable. Commit to the first step, and everything else happens as easily as water running down a hill. That’s how it was with Carl. And Whelan. It’s how it is with everything. 

‘You don’t have to like it. You just have to do it. It’s not a difficult job.’

‘Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. I’ve been dealing with people like this a lot longer than you.’

‘Then you should know what you’re doing.’ Jim stares straight forward; waiting, waiting, balanced on a wire far above the ground. Sweat prickles on his top lip, but he makes no move to wipe it away. It reminds him his body exists. ‘Two minutes, then go and watch them.’

‘They’ll be on their way now.’

‘I know. But you don’t want to be seen with them. i just want you to supervise, so they don’t mess it up. Step in if you have to.’

Peter is so not happy about this, Jim doesn’t have to look at him to know it. It radiates off him in waves, and if Jim were a lesser man he supposes it might affect him. But disapproval bounces off before ever getting near; he doesn’t know why it never touches anymore, it just doesn’t. Somewhere along the line - before Carl, even - he simply lost the ability to care. 

‘What are you going to be doing? Or is this just a little show for your amusement? Is this what makes you laugh, getting people to do stuff for you?’

‘You’re getting boring. Shut up.’

He ticks off seconds in his head. At precisely one-twenty he says, ‘go’, and Peter, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t whinge, doesn’t think; he snaps into the mode of the soldier he once was, and goes to work. Jim watches him all the way down the street. When he’s around the corner, Jim slips out of the car, flips up the hood of his jumper and walks in the opposite direction.

Midnight chimed four minutes ago. It’s the second Tuesday of the month, which means the rotating shift pattern of the university’s security team is going to be on changeover in six minutes’ time. Double the staff for a period of about five minutes. And though there are some CCTV cameras on campus, and in the area - mainly due to the Bank of Ireland housed in the old Parliament building just across the square, and incidentally the building he’s looking at right now - Jim knows where they are, and what they’re pointed at, and also the computer network they’re controlled by. He listens to Bach in his head as he lets himself into the computer science building, and heads to one of the labs. The place is locked, of course, but since when has that ever been a problem? It’s all laughably easy. He hasn’t just been educating himself academically for the last year. There isn’t an inch of the university he’s not aware of, not an office he can’t open or a computer he can’t look at. The World Wide Web is not in any kind of advanced state - but it will be, it _will_ be, and Jim is following developments with hunger that borders on desperation - but Trinity has some internal networking in use, among other things.

It also has something he’s been coveting for a year, and was a large part of why he chose this university to begin with. 

He watches from a window as a computer boots up. Everything is still, apart from some post-grad students making their way back to halls; tourists and locals cutting through campus on their way to home, or the bus stop, or to bars. It’s not busy. It’s too hot. Jim closes his eyes and waits, nodding his head in time with the throb of his heartbeat, pulsing red adrenaline across the back of his eyes. 

And then, a shout in the near distance. Just one, but it’ll spread. Something glass breaks on the edge of hearing; closer by, the computer beeps. Jim sits down, pulls a disk from his rucksack, and gets to work. He hates having to trust that a bunch of unknown louts can do a job properly, but he has no choice for the time being. Though that might change, he muses, as his self-written worm slides into the closed university network, disguised as being spread from much further afield. Peter is obviously going to be useful. Peter is also potentially dangerous, but there’s an easy way to find out the truth on that score.

Jim’s walking, walking, walking; hands stuffed in the front of his jumper, hood up, head down, through the building and outside, sticking to the shadows and skirting the edges of the larger campus buildings. There’s smoke in the air, and that one shout has become ten, fifty, windows flung wide and somewhere - he’s sure it’s real, and not just one of the noises in his head when things get loud - there’s the rough, abrasive rattle of a fire alarm. Doors are opening. There’s a siren in the distance. People are gathering, either to stand in small groups and watch, or hurry to the scene. Except there is not one scene and not one fire; there are five, spread out around the edges of these ancient buildings. And there are five men who should be ghosts, breaking things in the darkness, making a noise, drawing attention, causing two full shifts of security guards to spread out and hunt them down.

Jim is not a ghost. He’s a shadow in amongst all the other shadows. Silent, and dark, and unseen as he opens a door, and steps into his favourite place in the world. The Old Library stretches out on either side of him. It’s not the first time he’s let himself in when it’s shut. He likes the quiet which never feels empty, because the knowledge in these books can never be nothing. He imagines the minds of great people stuffed into the pages, bursting for him to read and absorb what they know. He likes the smell of the dust and wood polish, and the seats of the chairs rubbed shiny and soft by years and years of backsides sitting on them. He likes the way he ceases to be a person, and is absorbed by the thoughts of others. They’re easy to understand, but they’re conductors of light; he reads what they think and then thinks things of his own; better things, more interesting things, until he feels like he’s made of thought, and constructed of numbers, and free from the banality that he thinks could kill him one day.

But there’s no time for reading tonight. He runs his fingertip along the spines of books as he walks. The staff access is to one side, and the door - he is not surprised to see - is ajar. Not that it would matter if it weren’t, but it’s telling in its own way. He leans on the edge of a shelf-stack, and listens. There are fragments from a walkie-talkie, but it’s enough.

_‘…police en route…kids…fire… ETA six…all security report to…’_

Jim’s head is loud. Music wars with numbers, battling through adrenaline’s roar, dancing over the top of the plan which is calculating itself, recalibrating, throwing out probability and angles as things progress, an invisible whirr of activity he does not have to pay attention to. And beneath all of it, a laser focus picking up on the physical world; the words in the books, the rustle of material, the mutter of two worried voices in the depths of the office. 

He tests the knife blade against his thumb. He doesn’t want to use it. It would be messy, and the work of an amateur. And too easy. He wants this to be clean.

A window cracks at the end of the library, right on cue. Well _done_ , Peter. Feet scramble, and a voice says, ‘c’mon. We’ve got to go. Get on the blower, and get them to send more police.’

‘Sure it’s just kids.’

‘Just do it, will you?’

Jim knows the man who steps out is called Mark. He has a wife and six children, and has worked here for nine years. The other one is Jason, a twenty-one year old who cares about nothing but rally cars, and his girlfriend. He’s worked here six months. He’s useless, and spends a lot of money on weed. He does lock the door behind him, but again, not a problem.

The cameras are already down by the time he logs the computer on, using Jason’s ID. The security system fails minutes later; Jim is vaguely regretful that he didn’t make a payload to rub this in their faces. But he’s not leaving a signature behind this time. Not for something this big.

Five minutes later, there’s a room in the Old Library which smells vaguely of explosive, and charred wood. Jim’s rucksack is more full than it was before, though emptied of a few pertinent tools. And the noise in his head is of a different sort; it soars rather than blasts, edged with mania and delight. And there is no need to keep the smile off his face so he doesn’t, grinning as he sidles past the chaos wreaking its way through Parliament Square and down to College Park, lost in the smoke and the shouting, unseen by all.

 

*

 

‘Jim. Come _on_. We’ve got to go.’

Peter’s tone is urgent, and he smells of fire and sweat. He’s rubbing his face with a wet-wipe, smearing black up his cheek. Jim drops his rucksack behind the passenger seat, and crawls into his lap without a word, straddling his thighs and digging fingers into his hair.

‘Ji-‘

The word is lost to a kiss. Jim can just about feel his mouth, somewhere underneath the sensation of flying. He can’t quite register the hands trying not to grab his waist, but he’s aware of them as a notion.  No matter. He dips his tongue into Peter’s mouth, grinds down, feels the man snap gently in his hands, resistance melting away on the sound of a groan.

It feels like a long time has passed when they stop. Jim can feel his fingers, and he can taste ash and soap when he licks Peter’s cheek. The stubble is as rough as he thought it would be, pulled the wrong way up his tongue, and it grounds him like a kiss never could. The world sucks back into focus as if it’s been pulled through a straw, and then bounced into reality around him. 

‘Jim, I don’t…we-‘

‘Your place,’ he says, and slides back to the other seat. ‘Now.’

Peter looks helpless. His hand hesitates before he turns the key, but he _does_ turn the key so that’s the end of that argument. Jim puts his feet back up on the dashboard, and leans his forehead on his knee. ‘Ditch the car on the way. It’s junk anyway.’

He looks like he’s going to object. But when he turns his head Jim catches his eye, and whatever was going to be said dies in the air between them. Peter closes his mouth and nods, and starts the engine. Jim stretches his neck to the side, and thinks of Belfast and the smell of rain on fire. And then of Sherlock, tucked up safe in his posh school, sticking a needle in his arm because he can’t bear to do anything _real_ , because he hasn’t got the guts to _think_ , because he’s too scared to hold the world in his hands and bend it into the shape he wants.

A red stab of rage slices Jim’s gut, so hard and dark he tastes metal in his mouth. His fingers twitch with the effort of keeping himself within his own skin. He tilts his head towards Peter, and says, ‘hurry up,’ in a tone that does not allow discussion.

 

*

 

In the morning, the night exists only in flashes of light. It’s a cinema reel, all black to the naked eye. Take a scalpel and slice into the film, and sensation bursts out along with an image, maybe two. Peter in his living room, streetlight shining through the window and reflecting off smooth muscle. The taste of salt licked off his shoulder. The rattle of a belt buckle in the dark. Wall against his cheek, smooth and cold. A trickle of sweat in the hollow at the small of his back. Colour waxes and wanes, he can’t remember sound. A gasp here, maybe, a curse there. Peter’s mouth, he remembers that for a second or two. He knows what it feels like to have his teeth in his skin, but can’t remember being bitten. There are fingernail scratches on his buttocks, but the light fades on the blowjob. He remembers wet heat. His head screams in pain, but it’s only the usual fight against the mundane. Peter wouldn’t fuck him, he knows that. He can’t remember the argument, but there’s blood under his fingernails. There’s dried come on his stomach, and he’s pretty sure it’s not his. He’s alone in a strange bed, but at least he knows where he is, and what it means.

Everything is very quiet. There’s a note by the kettle in the kitchen. It says, _gone to buy a new car_. 

And on the back; _what did you do?_

Jim looks at his rucksack, dumped on an armchair and forgotten. And he smiles, until he thinks of Sherlock. He wants to say, _solve this one, Holmes_. But Sherlock is not going to be solving anything. Sherlock is not anything. And Jim is not going to be either. Didn’t he decide that yesterday? Hasn’t it been decided for him? If there’s a choice between good and evil - and he does not believe in anything so stupidly simple, but if he _did_ \- then last night proves evil is too easy. Because no one expects someone like him. No one knows how to stop him. No one wants to even try.

He fingers the note and then sets it on fire. The smoke curls up to the kitchen light, and vanishes. Jim watches it until his fingers burn, and doesn’t let it go. It crumbles to ash on the kitchen tiles, leaving him blistered, holding one unblemished corner. He puts it on his tongue. It tastes of nothing, and he finds he doesn’t have it in him to be surprised. 

 

*

 

He walks into a different kitchen an hour later, clad in a dressing gown and towelling his hair dry. His rucksack sits by the front door. The TV is on in the living room, and Davy is home for lunch, pushing rashers of bacon around a frying pan.

‘What’re you on today, Jimmy?’

‘I’ve got that meeting with Foster at one.’

‘You’re still going? I’d have thought for sure it’d be cancelled.’

Jim sits at the kitchen table, rolling the towel up and hooking it around his neck. Davy shovels bacon onto bread, folds it in half and puts the plate down in front of him.

‘Why?'

‘You didn’t hear?’ Mug. Milk. Pour. Davy places tea into his hand. ‘Someone stole the Book of Kells last night.’

Jim brings his lips to the brim, and blows delicately. His eyebrows raise. 

‘Did they?’ he says, and listens to himself laugh and laugh, echoing off the colours and noise of his blaring mind, on and on until there’s nothing left but his own endless, empty, glee. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Book of Kells](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Book_of_Kells)  
>  UVF = [Ulster Volunteer Force](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulster_Volunteer_Force)
> 
> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP).
> 
> Song: Ruelle - Madness


	10. Chapter 10

 

_There is no pain you are receding_

_A distant ship, smoke on the horizon_

_You are only coming through in waves_

_Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying_

 

 _Dublin. 1993._  

 

The world has gone still.

Jim doesn’t know if this is a consequence of his actions, or the heat, or just his mind doing its thing. Maybe it’s the time; it is after one in the morning, and the air is still so thick he could bite it. But he doesn’t think so. Everything has been very quiet since the robbery, no matter how much people scream on TV about getting the Book back. It’s vaguely hilarious.

He’s sitting on the floor of his bedroom, listening to himself sweat. The Dublin of his youth was never this hot. Ordinary people like to look back and talk about when summer felt like it was always sunny, and long, and lazy, and of course it’s just that they’re choosing not to remember the days where it rained, and was dull. But that greyness is what lives in his memory, the endless clouds and days of nothing, where the only colour to be found was inside his own head. He has an eidetic memory, and he can’t recall months of sunshine and heat, or picnics, and beaches, and all the things people like to pretend their youth was full of. He remembers clouds. The grey school uniform. The one patch of colour is that day before he started school, where the kids were playing on the field in the sunshine, and he had thought he was going to be one of them.

But this, now…this is true summer, the kind you read about in books where kids go off and have adventures on secret islands. Even he used to like those. He used to wish for something interesting to happen. And now he’s having adventures of his own, but it doesn’t feel like foiling a smuggler’s plot, or recovering lost treasure on a sandy beach. It feels like the sun bursting in his gut. It feels like everything is in pieces, shattered within him, and he’s just waiting for the black hole to form and take everything to a place where it’s lost forever. He’ll never find it once it’s gone. Even he can’t reach that far. And he doesn’t even know if he cares anymore; whether any of these things are worth having at all. Home, family, friends. He’s never had friends. He doesn’t belong here. His family love him, but don’t like him. And he can’t seem to find any emotion towards them at all, except fury, except sadness, except the knowledge that something somewhere went _wrong_ and there’s a barrier between him and them and it’ll never come down. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want it to.

A pinprick in the pad of his index finger. The photograph of Sherlock is sliced clean at the edge, and digs sharply as he rotates it round, and around. Now the clean white of the back, watermarked by Kodak; now Sherlock’s fourteen-year-old face, unsmiling and bland, an image stolen as he walked through the gate of his parent’s country house. He’d been wearing his Sunday best, probably being taken to church. It might account for the surly curl at the edge of his lip, though Jim has never seen Sherlock smile. He’d worn a tie, and looked like he hated it. Jim had wanted to touch it. He still wants to touch it, and tell him that he might hate wearing it but wow, he looks good. 

The urge to crumple the picture in his hands is strong, but he can’t bring himself to do it. It’s too hot to move even that small amount. His arse is numb from sitting on the floor too long, and the edge of the mattress is digging into his back. The smell of stale smoke makes the whole house feel rotten; a product of Stevie’s presence, who never seems to have a fag out of his mouth. Fags, and fry-ups. He’ll drop dead before he’s forty, or will if he makes it that far. Jim doubts it, and doesn’t care.

There’s movement in the house. A door opening, feet shuffling to the bathroom. The light cord being yanked. Jim stretches his neck to the side, and feels heat stroke his throat. The stereo reaches the end of a CD, and flips onto a new one. Bach. It’s a Bach sort of night. A haunting melody for the ghosts Jim is sick of living with. There should be a switch you can flip that bursts all the demons into flame. There should be a moment where it all _breaks_ , and you can look at the remains and say _nothing can be made of this_ , and just walk away and start over. Pure, and clean, and new. And maybe there is such a thing. He can feel the edges of it in his mind sometimes, when he’s been flying too high and too long, and everything exists as a possibility in thought. When the clutter has dropped away and he’s left with perfect clarity: _that_ is what’s wrong, _there_ is where I need to go, _this_ is who I am. 

But the problem with being clever - something so few people understand - is that there are no end of possibilities. And maybe some people would like the opportunity to know that, but only because they don’t understand what trouble it is. Jim could be a physicist, a mathematician, an astronomer, or some combination of all three. He could develop computers, and become rich beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. He could play the piano for a living, he could write, he could act; he is, by any standard, a remarkable actor. He could be a doctor. A surgeon. A psychiatrist. He understands people without trying; without wanting to, because there’s nothing in them worth understanding. He could draw, paint, create. 

He could kill. He could destroy. He could set everything on fire and laugh as the world crumbles around him. He has done all these things, and has no idea what remorse feels like. He can steal, and swindle, and explode. He can make people _hurt_ , and they deserve it. They do. Sometimes, he wants to make them _all_ hurt.

He knows what he’s supposed to do. A boy with his talents - all he has to do is focus them. Pick something. A teacher once told him, with envy in their voice, to just choose what he loves and do that forever. It would be a wonderful life. Didn’t he know how lucky he was?

The photograph of Sherlock flips between his fingers. Round, and around, and around.

Jim knows he’s lucky. He knows he’s _better_. He knows that no one can touch him, and no one ever will. He knows he has a charmed life, and perfect gifts, and he could do something great with them. Something to make the world better, and people would thank him, and he could stand on a stage one day with a Nobel Prize and let the plaudits rain down around him, through him, writing his name in history. But they wouldn’t touch him. They wouldn't _mean_ anything. Achievement is easy, making people gape is easy, being better is easy. And therefore worthless. So, what else is there?

…round, and around, and around.

Jim closes his eyes, and lets his head fall back until it’s resting on the bed. Sweat beads at his temple and runs slowly, losing itself in the edge of his sideburns. He can hardly feel his legs. There is only the sharp prick of the photograph as it winds its way through layers of skin, a fraction of a millimetre at a time. 

‘Jimmy?’

He almost smiles. There’s not so much a knock as a tap, one knuckle bouncing softly off wood. He should put the photograph away, but it’s too hot to move.

‘Come in.’

Davy opens the door a little. Jim puts himself behind his brother’s eyes, and sees himself sitting there on the floor in boxers and light vest, a shoebox by his side, an ashtray on the carpet, a pint of water sweating down the glass by his feet. The window is open, though the air is too thick to move the curtains. Someone’s playing dance music a few streets away, and the faint _boom boom boom_ of the bass can be felt like a heartbeat, throbbing away on the edge of hearing. Bach picks notes over the top, so quiet it can barely be heard. Jim had not wanted Stevie to wake up and start yelling.

‘Are you all right?’

Jim doesn’t open his eyes. He can feel Davy’s hesitation, but it doesn’t stop him coming in and shutting the door behind him. Jim moves with him, sensing him take two steps forward and sitting down ninety degrees, and an arm’s length, away.

‘You’ve been quiet for days.’

This is nothing, though. Jim is sometimes quiet for weeks, there’s just no one here to see it. And it’s never quiet in his head, except on nights like this. It should be a relief, but it isn’t. It usually means something’s going to happen.

He opens his eyes. Davy is looking at the photograph. Jim stops it spinning, making Sherlock face away so he can’t be studied. But Davy is not as stupid as Stevie. He notices things.

‘Is it him? Has he upset you?’

Jim just looks at him. Maybe it’s the late hour or the surreality of the night, but Davy doesn’t blink away for once. He looks back openly, but not without care.

‘What’s his name?’

Jim shakes his head, just once. Davy looks disappointed, but not surprised. A little relieved, even.

‘If it’s a boy that’s made you-‘

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For it to be that easy.’

His tone is harsher than he’d meant it to be. Davy recoils, but there’s no sign of his defences going up. His uneven hair and the crease on his jaw say he’s been trying to sleep, which accounts for a slower than usual response. And he’s clearly concerned. It’s almost sweet.

‘Is it not that easy? It can’t be that different, can it? Than a boy and a girl, y’know…having trouble.’

Boring. Endlessly, painfully boring. Jim’s breath leaves him in a rush, as despair stirs in his ribcage and threatens to smother his heart. 

‘It’s not like that. I’m not talking about this. Leave me alone.’

‘Jimmy, I just want to-‘

‘-what?’

‘…I don’t know. Help?’

He almost laughs. He considers letting _Jimmy_ take over. It would be easy. _Jimmy_ would be appreciative, and he could be having trouble with a boy, yes, sure, why not? He could ask Older Brother’s advice, and listen, nod, thank him and let him leave feeling good about himself.

But he’s been _Jimmy_ for four years, and he can’t do it any more. He doesn’t want to do it any more. He’d been pushing against the seams of that persona even before he left England to come back here, and he thinks there’s too much of him to stuff back into that skin. There’d have to be a really big valve to relieve the pressure that would come from it, and there’s only so much noise he’s willing to make. Better to let some of it out, and Davy’s the safest option because even if he pretends he doesn’t know it, he is fully aware of what Jim’s like. He can be horrified at the things Jim does, but he’ll never be surprised. 

‘I don’t need help, Davy.’

A brief pause suggests Davy thinks otherwise but again, it’s too hot to take it any further. Jim watches him rub his palms together, then pick up the glass of water on the floor and take a few big gulps. He offers it over when he’s done, and Jim takes it from his hand. He feels better when he’s drained half of it.

‘I’ve been going by David at uni, did I tell you?’

‘Why?’

Half a shrug. ‘It wasn’t really planned, it just happened. I’m registered as David, tutors use it, it caught on.’ There’s another pause, and he sounds a touch embarrassed and a touch pleased when he adds, ‘some people call me JD.’

‘And you let them?’

‘Yeah. Well, I mean, I prefer David but-‘

He sounds more embarrassed. Jim slides his eyes sideways to regard him for a moment, then rolls them forward again. 

‘You like the familiarity. You like the sense of belonging. You like the camaraderie.’

‘…yeah.’

Jim’s top lip pulls up to become an involuntary curl of disdain. Judging by how Davy - David - looks at his hands, he doesn’t miss it. Maybe the thought is obvious even to someone relatively stupid; that Jim is being subjected to this anecdote for the exact same reason. Davy wants to share. He wants to connect, the way normal people do - tiny moments, details of each other’s lives, brothers murmuring together on a night where it’s too hot to sleep.

‘Because you never had it at home?’

There’s a pause. Then Davy looks like he’s going to lash out a reply, but he pulls it back at the last second. Jim watches him control himself, and is equal parts amused and frustrated. Davy finally losing his shit would be funny. God knows he’s been holding it in long enough.

‘We’re not the closest family,’ he allows eventually, and Jim stifles a sigh.

‘Obviously. What’s your point?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t want to argue, Jimmy. Can we not?’

Jim lets it drop. Not because he doesn’t want an argument, but because it’s too boring to contemplate. No, they’re not the closest family and yes, it’s Jim’s fault. It was his fault long before he turned into what he is now. It was his fault from the first time they realised he was different, and found themselves unequipped to deal with him. A gifted son, who was no gift to his parents. ‘ _We just want you to be a normal lad, Jimmy, so you’ll be happy.’_ (Go and make friends, smile at our jokes, play football with your brothers.) _‘You can be special and still be happy. Balance, Jimmy. You won’t be happy unless you have that.’_

They put him in a normal school, and expected the banality to rub off on him. They tried to make him _dull_.

Unforgivable. 

‘All right,’ is what he says, and falls silent. Davy lets it be for a little while. Then he leans forward, and plucks the photograph from Jim’s fingers. He turns it to look at the face while Jim is still mentally screaming bloody murder at this invasion of privacy. It’s so strong, he reacts too late to snatch it back. So he just sits and stares, watching Davy assess Sherlock Holmes.

‘He’s going to be beautiful.’

‘What?’

Davy looks up. ‘This kid. He looks like a surly little bastard, but his face is going to be unique when he grows up. Beautiful, probably.’

Jim stares at him. Davy hesitates, then hands the photo back.

‘Sorry.’

Jim glances at the photo again. He’s going to be beautiful? He already is beautiful, or he was before he turned out to be boring. 

He rips the picture in half, and tosses the pieces onto the carpet. ‘He’s just a drug addict I once knew.’

‘Oh.’ Another pause. ‘Why do you know drug addicts?’

‘I didn’t use the plural. And he wasn’t a junkie when I knew him.’

‘It’s that what’s got you so pissed off?’

‘I’m n-‘

‘Jimmy, you’re sitting here in the middle of the night, alone with his photo. Something about him’s bothering you.’

‘Get out of my room.’

‘I know _you’ve_ tried drugs. You’ve probably done stuff I haven’t-‘

‘Get _out_.’

Maybe there’s enough of a snarl to make David shut up this time, or maybe he just remembers that badgering doesn’t work on Jim and only makes him dig in harder. He stops talking, but doesn’t make a move to get up. Jim’s left hand is a fist until he notices it, and stretches his fingers out. Davy looks…upset. _Really_ upset, which is - different.

‘Why are you always like this? Why can’t you ever just _talk_ to people? I try, and you just-‘

‘So by ‘people’, you mean you?’

‘Anyone.’

Jim swallows all the things he’d like to say, because he can’t be bothered to say them. ‘I’ve been talking to you normally for years. I’m not a kid anymore.’

‘A _kid_?’ Davy looks incredulous. ‘You think we’ve ever treated you like…fuck’s sake Jimmy, you’ve been living on your own since you were fifteen, why would we-‘

He cuts off as a loud _thump thump thump_ resonates against the wall. Jim closes his eyes, and Davy blows his cheeks out.

‘Will you two queers shut up in there! Trying to sleep.’

Jim mutters, ‘fucking neanderthal,’ under his breath for Davy’s benefit, catching his eye and daring him to disagree. And for once, Davy doesn’t seem inclined to try and pretend Stevie’s all right really. He rolls his eyes too, and stands up.

‘I shouldn’t bother with either of you.’

‘Then don’t.’

Davy looks down at him. Jim can’t be bothered to meet his gaze, and just stares at a patch of wall under the window. Most of his attention is on the ripped photo on the carpet. 

‘You really wouldn’t care if I just fucked off, would you Jimmy? No, don’t bother. I get it. I always have.’

Davy, Jim thinks, as he’s left alone and the door closes behind him, doesn’t get a damn thing. Not a thing. If Stevie is the sludge at the bottom of a stagnant pool, Davy is the algae that floats up to the surface of the water. Most people are somewhere in that region; dark and muddy puddles, to be splashed through or stepped over. Jim is the sky. Sherlock is…

…Sherlock is nothing. He doesn’t exist, and he certainly doesn’t matter. Jim snatches the photograph up off the floor, and sets light to the pieces with his Zippo. He watches the kid burn, holding him long after the flames are licking his own fingers. Then he douses the remnants in the glass of water, and knocks it over so all the pieces of ash and dust and sludgy paper get spread out over the carpet, to dry out and get vacuumed up tomorrow. Or trodden into the nap forever, lost from sight and mind. 

He watches the water until the beads caught on the fibres have all been pulled down, soaked into the weave, leaving an anonymous dark stain behind. That’s all Sherlock is. That’s all any of them are. There’s no point looking for anything different, because no such thing exists.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP).
> 
> Song: Pink Floyd - Comfortably Numb


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick one to get back in the swing of it.

 

 

_White trash get down on your knees_

_Time for cake and sodomy_

 

  _Dublin. 1993._

 

Jim listens to one of his supervisors talk on, and on, and on. His mind is in the square below, which is still cordoned off and commandeered by police and forensic teams. And the press. There’s a lot of press. He has to walk a long way out of his usual route to ensure he doesn’t get caught on any cameras, which is fine except he also has to make sure there’s a reason for the long walk. He’s not an amateur. This is not the time to be doing things differently for no reason. Not the time to be noticed.

‘James, are you with me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your thoughts?’

He gives his thoughts. They’re talking about binomial theory, and he gives his thoughts until the supervisor is blinking, and then until they’re pulling their head back in surprise, and then until they’re gaping. He stops when he simply can’t be bothered to speak any more. He looks at his supervisor. They look at him. They? She. He hasn’t really noticed, but she is a woman. She shakes her head a little bit, and smiles, but Jim can see the sick note of jealousy underneath the sharp curve of her mouth. She’s having to force herself to say this, and look pleased.

‘You certainly…yes, well, you have a grasp of what we’re talking about.’

A grasp? He understands far better than she ever will. He huffs a silent laugh and shakes his head too, making sure she sees it before he looks out of the window again. This is his second official supervision in two days, and it’s not going any better than the first one. He’d been looking forward to coming here. He’d been excited about being around people on his level; dying to talk numbers with them. And so far, they’ve been looking at him like _that_. Disbelief, and then jealousy.

He is trying not to consider what will happen if they don’t manage to keep up. This was supposed to be his shot at finding peace. This was supposed to make things _better_. It’s only a few days since he spoke to Professor Foster and let himself believe this was going to be okay. He cannot, will not, contemplate what’s left if it turns out these people can’t challenge him either.

‘I think we’ve talked enough today, yes? Maybe put your thoughts down on paper, and send it to me before we meet next month?’

He wants to say, _why, so you can steal my ideas?_ But he doesn’t, because he’d told himself he was going to behave. He nods and stands up, knowing very well his work is for him, and him alone. They can have his thesis when he’s finished it, and will have to make do with crumbs until then.

When he’s outside, and around the corner from the police/press melee, he leans against the side of the building and lights a cigarette. It’s ten in the morning, and the day stretches in front of him waiting to be filled. Stevie’s back at the house, of course, so that’s out. Davy – David – is at work. Jim thinks about spending the rest of the day in the computer lab, but there’s energy dancing under his skin, pent up after days spend inside, trying not to think about Sherlock. He won’t be able to sit still, and he can’t go near Stevie without wanting to shove a cigarette through his eye. He needs some exercise. He needs to wear himself out, so he can sit in one place and _think_.

The swimming pool isn’t far away. He turns his head towards it, blowing a stream of smoke into the air…then swivels on his heel, and walks in the opposite direction.

 

*

 

Jim picks the lock on Peter’s door, and lets himself in without bothering to try and conceal it. He can hear the TV, so the man’s up and awake, and that’s all the warning he should need. Jim drops his bag by the door, and walks on through.

The kitchen smells of tea, and fried eggs, and fresh cigarette smoke. The back door is open, letting the heat in, and Peter sits at the table wearing just a towel around his waist, regarding Jim over the top of his newspaper.

He leans on the door frame, and crosses his arms. Peter raises an eyebrow.

‘You’re a cheeky little fucker.’

‘Yeah. Are you going to make me a cup of tea?’

‘Am I fuck.’

Wrong answer. Jim shoves off with his shoulder and stalks into the room, trailing two fingers down the length of the table. Over papers, making pens roll away, over a lighter, knocking the milk over, dragging through the butter on a piece of toast, sending a plate onto the floor…until they arrive at Peter’s mug, which he picks up, standing over him and looking down, bringing it to his lips.

‘You’re like a toddler,’ Peter says, but his voice is low and he doesn’t break eye contact. Jim takes a mouthful, then wrinkles his nose and lets it fall from his fingers.

‘You take sugar.’

The mug cracks on the floor. Jim pulls the newspaper away from an unresisting hand, tosses it behind him and straddles Peter’s thighs.

‘My son bought me that.’

‘I don’t care.’

Peter tastes like sweet tea, and smoke, and toast. Jim takes his mouth like he owns it, not allowing room for objection, or comment, or anything but what’s going to happen. His lips are soft and grasping, even as his fingers dig tight into Peter’s hair; twist there to keep him still, the other hand holding the side of his neck, thumb pressed to the base of his larynx. Peter makes a small, strained sound. Jim doesn’t let up. Not until Peter’s gasping with the need to take a full breath, and he can feel a lump pressing against the muscle of his inner thigh.

‘You’re going to fuck me.’

‘Jim-‘

‘Shut up. You are, because you want to, and I want you to.’

‘I said - - the other night.’

Jim didn’t hear him the other night, or can’t remember it, and doesn’t care. He bites at Peter’s lower lip, tugs it with his teeth and then takes his mouth again, grinding down until Peter’s groaning, and hands are pushing up under his shirt. His hands are big, and warm, and Jim wants them holding him down, wants them to force the anger out of him until he feels _anything_ else. Maybe it’s not even anger; maybe it’s hate, fear, abject terror at the possibility of never being able to find what he needs. It doesn’t matter here and now, as Peter groans again and tries to pull away from the thumb restricting his air. Jim does not remove it, so Peter grabs his wrist and yanks his arm away, half-standing, lifting him up on strong thighs, bending forward to deposit him on the edge of the table. Jim leans back at once, shoving breakfast things onto the floor, pushing his foot up under Peter’s towel to his hips, kicking the knot until the material falls away. Peter’s half-hard and stiffening rapidly. Jim licks his bottom lip, and leans back on his elbows. Orange juice seeps into his shirt, there’s a bowl spilling milk against his ribs, and he doesn’t give a toss.

‘Give me that.’

‘It’s a bad idea. You’re-‘

‘If you tell me I’m too young one more time, I’ll castrate you with your own crockery.’ Jim palms his own crotch, forced to break eye contact when Peter looks down to watch. The air visibly leaves his lungs. ‘There, see. I know you want me. You’ve wanted me since you first saw me. So take it. And make it fucking good, because I don’t like people who waste my time.’

‘Jesus, you’re a little tosser.’

‘With a _really_ tight arse. If you don’t believe me, check for yourself.’

Peter’s face crumples with desire. His cock stretches up and forward, as if reaching for what it wants. Jim pulls a sachet of lube and a condom out of his pocket, tosses them down, then laughs as one hand pushes his shirt up and another tries to yank his jeans down without unfastening the belt first.

‘You get stupid when you’re fucking. Good to know. Come _on_ , I’m not in the mood to wait.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Nope.’ The belt is open. His button and zip are taken care of. Peter’s yanking the material open, his pants down a few inches, and Jim sucks a breath in fast as lips close around the head of his cock. ‘It’s not- - _ah_ , fuck, you don’t have to. I’m-‘

It is good, though. Peter’s mouth is soft and wet, and he’s gentle, except there’s a pleasing desperation underneath, evident in the way he sucks quickly up and down. It’s like he’s trying to wake up every part of him at once. Jim rolls his eyes and rips the lube open.

‘Here.’

His head drops back as a slick finger is pushed inside. He grasps Peter’s hair, half in frustration, half because he does love this, he’s always loved this. Or at least what it could be, if only someone would do it right. He still holds out hope.

‘I don’t need your fingers. Give me your dick, or I’ll-‘

Peter stops sucking. His finger twists as he looks up, and Jim bites his own lip. Pleasure fizzes up the middle of him, and he wants more than ever to be rid of his jeans. ‘Or you’ll what?’

‘You don’t want to know, but neither of us will get off. Come _on_.’

Peter straightens up. For a second, it really looks like he’s going to change his mind, even as he rolls the condom on. His fingers are hesitant, so Jim smiles up at him and lets his hand drop to his own cock, stroking it through his palm. Peter can’t seem to stop himself watching, and Jim drags his thumb down the slit, writhing a little on the table.

‘Please?’

He asks it in a small voice. Peter’s breath chokes out of him, and then Jim’s not wearing jeans anymore. His legs are pulled open and he drops flat to his back, laughing wildly until a flash of pain; glorious, mind-calming pain; thuds its way over his nerves. He tenses up and Peter makes an animal sound, half inside him, his thighs quivering with the need to take the rest, one hand slowly rubbing between Jim’s legs.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters, and Jim smiles again. ‘Sorry. Fuck. Are you all right?’

‘Are you waiting for written permission? Fuck me already.’

Peter squeezes the rest of the lube over himself. It’s easier then, which is disappointing. Jim does not like easy, and he likes being taken out of his own head and body. But it’s okay, because it’s a considerable heft to be impaled on, and Peter loses control of himself admirably. One part of Jim is left yelling on the table, yanked onto the cock pounding him, leaking over his own stomach long before he’s made to come. The rest of him watches from the back of his mind, cataloguing Peter’s facial expressions, his desperate need, the pull of muscles in his arms and chest and shoulders, the way he hates himself for giving into this, the way – underneath the boring morals – he really just wants to be doing this all day. The way he really wants to let go, and be what he used to be.

He’s not quiet when he comes. He throws his head back and strains with his whole body, unable to resist the clench as Jim tenses up, pulls at him, forces him over the edge. Jim watches coolly from behind his eyes, then makes himself tap Peter’s arm frantically to draw attention to his own need. A large hand descends and tugs him hard, just on the right side of pain. He shoots over his stomach and chest with a small cry, twisting up to make Peter curl with desire all over again.

And then it’s done, and he’s…he’s nothing. Not bored, but not sated. Not taken away from himself. Not tired enough to feel better, but not interested enough to demand they do it again. Not that Peter could, straight away. He’s stuck with the refractory period of a much older man. Boring.

‘Jesus.’ He’s laughing, so Jim smiles too. ‘You weren’t kidding about being tight.’

‘Why would I have been?’ He shifts, trying to reclaim his leg from Peter’s too-tight grasp. ‘Out. It’s itching already.’

Peter eases out of him, holding on to the condom so he doesn’t lose it. Jim puts one of his heels on the edge of the table and lets his other leg swing, leaving himself open and exposed. His shirt is still rucked up to his chest, and he’s covered in his own come. His cock lies pointed upwards, tense but not hard, a clear promise that he could be ready to go again in minutes. Peter can’t seem to stop looking, so Jim lets him. He’s uncomfortably aware of sweat at the back of his neck, and the orange juice in his shirt.

‘Feel better?’

‘No.’ Peter shakes his head. Jim rolls his eyes.

‘I mean physically. You’ve been rubbing one out over me every night since I first showed up with Frank. I don’t care about your guilt.’

‘I shouldn’t have.’

‘Yeah, you’re afraid you’re a paedo, I get it. You’re not – with me, anyway. I’m a lot older than most people you know.’

‘You’re sixteen.’

‘Not in my head.’

He’s bored with this, and sits up. His shirts falls down over the mess, and he makes an exasperated sound and pulls it off.

‘Put my clothes in the wash. I’m going for a shower. No, you can’t come in with me.’

He leaves everything in a pile on the kitchen floor, and disappears upstairs. The place will be spotless when he returns, which is good. He doesn’t enjoy mess. There’s some predictable behaviour he doesn’t mind encouraging, and Peter needs to get into the habit of doing what he’s told – and what he isn’t told, but knows to be the right thing anyway. He’s smart enough to manage that much. Jim has high hopes for him, as long as he can get over this stupid fear of giving in to what he wants. Yeah, Jim would be illegal if they were in England – but they’re not. They’re both illegal in Ireland, because no one’s allowed to be gay. The fear obviously comes from some past experience, some knowledge from Peter that his desires are not deemed acceptable by others, but Jim couldn’t care less about that. He can leash himself, and obviously will. As long as he puts out on demand, there won’t be a problem.

The kitchen is pristine when he wanders back into it twenty minutes later, wearing one of Peter’s shirts. It almost reaches his knees. Peter is back in the chair, back in his towel, back with another cup of tea. There’s another one in front of the chair to the side, but Jim ignores the invitation and sits on the end of the table, his bare feet on Peter’s knees, daring him to look.

Neither of them say anything for a minute. It’s amusing. Jim watches Peter try to avert his eyes, and listens to the sound of the washer going around. Eventually; ‘did you find another car?’

‘Yeah. It’s in the garage.’

‘Good. You’ll need to take me to Darndale on Friday night. There’s some men I want you to introduce me to.’

‘Jim, that’s-‘

‘Shut up. Frank Kavanagh left a gap, and guess who’s stepping in. For the time being, at least.’

This isn’t exactly true, but it’s a good notion to have out there. Peter doesn’t look disbelieving this time, not like when Jim told him to grab some mates the other night, because they were going to work.

‘You’re a kid. No one’s going to take you seriously.’

‘Oh, I know. You leave that to me. In the meantime, did you pay your friends off?’

‘Didn’t have a choice, did I?’

‘I’ll give you the money back.’

It’s in his bag, but he’s not getting up to get it right now. He’s staring into Peter’s eyes, admiring the blue of them, amused by the way he keeps trying to look away.

‘Did you steal the Book of Kells?’

‘Of course I did. You were there.’

‘You should have told me. If I’d known-‘

‘You’d have stopped me?’

‘No. I would’ve run a mile in the other direction. That’s not a small job, Jim. That’s not something you throw together on a whim, because you’re pissed off about something and want a distraction. That’s not _normal_.’

Jim smiles slowly. Peter eyes it, then huffs out a breath. Not amused, but resigned. A little bit horrified, perhaps. A touch scared.

‘They’re not going to give up until they get it back. You’ll have to get it out of the country if you want to sell it, and I’m not helping you with that.’

‘Why would I want to sell it?’

Peter blinks. ‘If you don’t want the money, what’re you going to - - what, are you a secret aficionado of ancient texts written in Latin? Are you just going to keep it to look at?

‘I do enjoy Latin, as it goes. But no, I’m not going to keep it.’

‘Then-‘

Peter cuts off abruptly. Jim smiles a little wider as cogs turn. He can practically hear the gears grinding, and pushes his toes up under the towel to distract him, tickling them along the meat of Peter’s inner thigh.

‘Don’t tell me you nicked it for nothing.’

‘Not for nothing, no.’

‘But you’re going to give it back.’

‘Yeah.’

‘…for fuck’s _sake_ , Jim.’

He’s forced to sit back as Peter stands up, pushing his foot away. Boring. He picks up his tea as he watches him head to the sink, starting the tap running with more force than necessary.

‘If we’d got caught, we’d have got twenty years each, easy. Bad enough you didn’t tell us what you were doing. You’d have got away with it, because no one’d believe it was your idea. And all for _nothing?_ ’

‘I just _said_ it wasn’t for nothing. Don’t make me repeat myself, it’s tedious.’

The tea does not have sugar in it. It’s good. He sips it slowly, tuning out the water splashing as Peter scrubs angrily at his mug. He’s probably saying things like _inconsiderate_ , and _troublemaker_ or blah blah blah whatever. Jim’s in tomorrow already, reviewing the security codes for another well-known tourist spot in Dublin. And he has one last supervision to go to before he’s left alone for a month to write some stuff up.

‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Not a single word.’ He gets up off the table, drains his mug and holds it out to Peter. ‘I’m going for a nap. Wake me up when my stuff’s in the dryer. If you’re a good boy, I might even let you have another go.’

He leaves Peter standing with his mouth hanging open. He remembers the way to the bedroom from the other night, and is pleased to find the bed neatly made. You can take the boy out of the Army, et cetera. The sheets aren’t fresh on this morning, but were clean a couple of days ago. They’ll do. Jim slides between them and pillows his head on his hands, looking up at the ceiling. There are different paint marks to count here. Different cracks to drive him crazy. Different distractions to keep him from thinking about what he really needs to think about, and just can’t bring himself to face.

 

*

 

He wakes up to the feel of the quilt shifting, and weight added to the end of the bed.

‘Dryer?’

‘Dryer.’

He smiles sleepily, and turns onto his front. There’s a lovely stiff pressure against the inside of his thigh. And then it moves, and there’s a lovely weight pressing him down, and this time he keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t bother cataloguing anything. It’s far less frantic, far less chance of boundaries being pushed so there’s far less to learn. But it’s a nice enough way to waste another half-hour of life, and it’s always amusing to make another man desperate. Because he does intend to make Peter desperate. Quite a lot hinges on it, in fact.

 

*

 

‘So, what’re you going to do in Darndale?’

Jim finds cuddling tedious. He never does it. Worse than tedious, in fact; he actively despises it. But today he makes himself sprawl over Peter’s chest, and blow smoke up towards the ceiling as they lounge together.

‘I’m going to be your protégé. You’re going to be taking over Frank’s territory. Or rather, reinforcing your grip on it. It’s already Frank’s, you just need to stop everyone else stepping in and taking it. Like you’ve been doing already.’

‘Have you been watching me?’

‘Of course not. I’ve got better things to do. It’s the only logical step since he died. You’re not working for one of the others, so you’re – at the least – keeping things calm until the ground’s divided up, or you’ve declared yourself the boss of it. Either way, you’ll need to see off everyone who wants to take it off you.’

‘So I ask again – what’re you going to do?’

It’s not a bad question. Jim took the Book of Kells as a last hurrah, because he’s been wanting to for a year. Except that’s bollocks, isn’t it? You can’t take something that big and then do nothing. Even giving it back is the exact statement he _wants_ to make, though it could also be seen as a way out of trouble. But has he ever really believed he was going to behave himself after that job? Is he even capable of it? He thought it would be more difficult to steal that book, just as he thought uni would be more difficult. It’s early days, but academia is not looking promising. Crime…has been fun, so far. But there’s no real satisfaction in it, and if Sherlock is going to continue-

-no. No, he will not think of Sherlock. This is nothing to do with him. Jim drags on the butt of his cigarette, and stubs it out.

‘I just want to see the main players. Then we’ll see.’

Everything is quiet for a moment, the only sound the tumble dryer on the floor below. Round and around and around.

‘Jim?’

‘Mm.’

‘Did you kill Frank?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

‘Am I _sure_ I didn’t kill a man?’

‘Right, fine. Just checking.’

Jim does not give a secret smile, or make any overt gesture. He makes himself seem sleepier than he is, in fact, and lets his eyelids droop closed. His fingertips tap a gentle rhythm on Peter’s chest, and he tries not to think of Sherlock Holmes.

‘I regret the day I ever met you.’

That brings a huffed laugh, and Jim scores his fingernail across Peter’s skin, leaving a raised white graze behind that rapidly turns red.

‘Oh, sweetheart. You haven’t seen a thing, yet. Not a single bloody thing.’

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP).
> 
> Song: Marilyn Manson - Everlasting C***sucker


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

_All you have is your fire_  
_And the place you need to reach_  
_Don't you ever tame your demons_  
_But always keep them on a leash_

_Dublin. 1993._

 

Jim leans on the wall and looks out of the window, to where a car is burning ten storeys below. Three lads, none of whom can be more than twelve, are circling it like half-grown pups; both excited by the flame and heat - and the fact they stole the car at all - and bored by something they see every other day. One of them is brandishing a long stick, and enjoys poking at the burning seats. The chemical smell of melting plastic reaches even this far up, and Jim resists the urge to wrinkle his nose. The other two are finding things to throw into the wreck, maybe hoping it’ll make it more interesting. Bottles, empty cans, bricks, anything is fair game.

Jim thinks they’ll find it plenty interesting if they keep it burning much longer, and the tyres explode. His eyes wander along the wasteland – there is no other word for it – in front of Plunkett Tower, to the horses tied up on the scrubland and the wrecks of two other burnt out cars, to the giant heap of rubble and trash in the middle of what would be a road, if any vehicles could get past it. A gang of youths in bomber jackets, jeans and aging shell suits lounge on the pile, drinking white cider out of two-litre bottles, smoking cigarettes and joints, throwing empties at younger kids who walk too close. There are three other blocks of flats to the right, but they’re not as tall as Plunkett; he can look down on them, and their lights, and their debris parked out on the balcony. Bikes, and flower pots, and unused armchairs. Laundry that was dry hours ago in this heat, but left out to get damp again now the sun’s finally going down, at 10pm on this roasting Friday night. Music is thumping a beat from any number of different places. The flats above, below, in the other towers, in cars cruising by, the noise filling the spaces between the people crammed into these hives of the poor, the degraded, the hopeless, the mentally ill. _The criminal_ , Jim thinks, and stretches his neck to the side. These tiny, stupid, petty criminals.

‘Gerry.’

Jim ignores the voice so clearly aimed at him, and resumes watching the boys playing with the car. Shadows flicker and glow, gold and black, lighting their small, hard faces for a second before they’re lost to the dark, disappeared from sight and mind until they dance back through flame a few seconds later. They crow their curses to the night, trying to claim territory – this one patch of twisted, burnt metal – without knowing that nothing in this world has ever, will ever, belong to them. Not the concrete they skip across, not the roofs over their heads, not their clothes, not their emotions; their dreams, hopes, wants. These are all things that have been given by entities far more powerful, and they’ll be taken away on their same whim.

‘ _Gerry_.’

A ball of scrunched-up newspaper bounces off the hood of his jacket. He jerks his head up as if surprised, just as Peter says, sharply; ‘don’t do that.’

‘Ah, what the fuck. You said he was simple.’

Declan McBride will throw what he likes at whomever he likes. Jim knew this the second he met him, when he got a shove on the shoulder that almost propelled him into the wall. Peter is a little more slow on the uptake, naturally.

‘Simple, yeah. It doesn’t mean you can throw things at him.’

‘Gerry’ turns around. Jim keeps his face guarded, and vacant behind the eyes. His shoulders are a little hunched and his hands are balled up in his jeans’ pockets. The room he has been pretending to ignore holds Peter, Declan, and two men in their thirties who are both called Pat. Jim has christened them Thing One and Thing Two in his head, while noting that both are carrying weapons, and know how to fight. Thing Two is from a travelling family, and is clearly experienced in bare knuckle boxing. Peter’s going to have to look out for him. Thing One is lean and sharp, with a speed lover’s flitting gaze and ever-working mouth. Jim estimates he’s near the end of his second day awake, and it will take virtually nothing to get him to blow. Not ideal when he has at least one knife and one gun on his person.

‘Aye?’ says Gerry, looking gormlessly from one to the other. His gaze falls on Peter and he smiles at once, pleased to see someone he knows.

‘Run down t’the offy, wouldja? We need beer.’

He nods feebly, clearly not understanding what’s being asked. Peter shakes his head.

‘He can’t go. He won’t remember, and he can’t use money right.’

Declan scowls. ‘What the fuck d’you bring him for?’

‘Didn’t have a choice. I’m babysitting. He won’t remember any of it anyway.’

Peter is a flawless liar. If he keeps this up, he might earn himself the best blowjob of his life. But Gerry remains blank, still nodding, Jim calculating the remaining length of Declan’s fuse from somewhere far behind his own eyes.

‘Fucking…Pat, go down the offy.’

Declan holds up a twenty. Thing One takes it without complaint, and leaves the room. He’ll be doing a quick line in the toilet before he goes anywhere, keeping himself awake. Jim would prefer this to be over by the time he comes back, but Declan is being a pain in the arse. It’s annoying, because this is not the only job Jim has on tonight.

He turns back to the window, and his staring at the burning car. Two of the boys have disappeared. One remains, hunkered down on his heels on top of a wall, poking at the inside of the hulk with his stick. The flames are dying down, glowing red in the depths, white on patches of the metal frame. Jim imagines the heat, and the way it’ll be pricking at that lad’s face, drying him out, burning away the thoughts and emotions he doesn’t need, leaving him clean. Jim knows what that feels like. He went through a fire phase himself, years ago.

He doesn’t move as Peter speaks. ‘So Declan, can we talk?’

Jim hears Declan light another cigarette. ‘Gerry’ wrinkles his nose against the smell. His fingers touch the pane of glass, as if he wants the heat of the car to climb this far; as if he will always reach towards light.

‘Yeah, we can talk.’

This is when Jim should listen. He is listening. But his eyes are dancing with the flames and he’s sinking, the smell of wood from nine years ago, the smell of rubble and chemicals from four months ago. Paper crumples; a building blows up. There are two screams, and he jerks his head to the side.

‘Jesus, what’s up with him?’

Peter’s voice is concerned when he replies, but Jim only hears it dimly (‘…he’s all right’), as a smile curls one corner of his mouth. On the ground below, the boy stands up and spreads his arms. He’s only stretching, but it looks like he’s flinging himself open to the world, standing on the edge of flame. _Here I am. Fall at my feet, and obey_.

Jim’s nails trail two lines down the glass, hiding the boy’s body from view. The kid might feel like a god tonight, but it’s all a matter of perspective. There’s always someone higher, who will wipe him away with one stroke of a finger.

 

*

 

_Dublin, 1983._

_Christmas Eve._

 

‘Be back before it gets dark. I mean it now. You don’t want me to be tellin’ your da you’ve been late.’

Stevie is already running, his shoes leaving scuffed footprints in the newly-fallen snow. Davy is almost prancing on the spot, torn between wanting to show their mam he’s listening, and running after Stevie. Jimmy is bundled up to the ears in a thick scarf that smells like cigarette smoke, with everything muffled by the hat engulfing his head. He counts the loose fibres on the scarf, again and again in the space of seconds, disgusted by the stink and the way his breath turns the wool wet. He tries to turn his face a bit, but the dampness just drags along his cheek.

‘And look after Jimmy.’

‘Aw, _mam_ …’

‘Look after your brother, David!’

Mam’s voice is rarely this sharp, and Davy looks surprised for a second. Then he nods with reluctance, and jerks his head out towards the large green square in the middle of the council estate. It’s covered with almost a foot of snow, an early Christmas gift, and doors are opening all over the estate, letting kids free of their cages to run free in the wild. Snowballs are already starting to fly in corners of the green, and one family of girls from down the street are armed with a carrot and coal, clearly thinking about making a snowman.

Jimmy follows Davy towards their older brother, kicking reluctantly through the drifts. Stevie is already part of a pack dividing themselves into teams, and arguing over the merits of groups of two versus groups of four for the best snowball battle. The matter is quickly decided when a new gang shows up at the edge of the grass; twenty kids from three streets away, led by the McGurk boys, who holler a challenge that carries from thirty feet away. The McGurks go to a different school, and lead a different gang, and are sworn enemies of Stevie and his pals.

‘We’ll split into two teams and come at them from different sides. Get them off the park, and drive them back down their own road.’

Jimmy kicks snow with his boot. They’re too tight, because Mam had insisted he wear two pairs of socks. He’d told her he didn’t want to come out, but she said he had to. She wanted the house to herself, obviously. She said she wanted to get on with the baking, but he doubts it. There’s a lot of sherry about this time of year, and his dad would be finished with work in an hour.

‘Davy, you’re with me.’

Jimmy’s eyes flick up at Stevie’s command. Davy nods. Jimmy waits with no expectation or hope, but with a dull feeling of _something_ inside. The slight silence that follows tells him that neither of his brothers are looking at him on purpose. And he doesn’t know why there’s this sensation of waiting, because it’s not like he wants to play anyway.

‘Right, let’s go. At ‘em, boys!’

The pack screeches and yells and bellows, growing by the second as more kids join from the outside, pulled in by the promise of a fight. Gloved hands scoop snow until frozen grass can be seen underneath. The McGurks and their clan throw out an answering call, and then someone runs and launches the first ball, and the battle is on.

Jimmy catches Davy’s eye for just a second. Then his brother is gone and Jimmy, unassigned to a team, kicks at the remains of snow around him. There’s not enough to make a single ball of his own, and no one to throw it at anyway. The ‘teams’ are already just a mass of howling individuals, unable to tell who they’re lobbing the snowballs at. He watches for a few seconds, then turns to look at his house. He can see his bedroom window from here, where it’s quiet and there are books, and no people. But he can’t go back inside. His mother wouldn’t like it.

‘D’you want to come over here?’

He turns awkwardly on the spot, movement hampered by the coat, and the socks, and the boots and scarf and hat. The girl has bright red hair, and her name is Ailish. She lives four doors away, she’s ten, and waves a hand vaguely in the direction of a smaller group who are starting a snowman and making snow angels, laughing excitedly at this rare treat from the sky.

‘You can play with us. We’re going to make an igloo.’

The measurements for snow bricks land in his head. He has it constructed in seconds. Boring.

‘No,’ he says, and turns away from her. And from the snowball war, and his house. There must be something more interesting to do than this.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

Peter and Declan McBride have been failing to come to an agreement on territory for twenty minutes, and Jim is going to lose his mind with boredom and frustration. The last kid by the burning car has disappeared, and the flames are low and growing dim. He can no longer smell the melting plastic and rubber, maybe because it’s all burned away but probably because his nose is full of the smell of years-old snow, and the ice in the air that Christmas. It had turned out fun in the end, hadn’t it? But there’s still a flare of rage inside, sharper than normal, and he cannot listen to these idiots being dumb any longer. He starts to knock his forehead on the glass, gently at first and then harder, harder, until their voices stop droning and Peter is calling his fake name instead.

‘ _Gerry_. What’re you doing? Stop it. _Stop_ -‘

He is dragged backwards, spun on the spot. He allows it, vacant-eyed and limp, laughing in the recesses of his mind at the concern on Peter’s face.

‘I want the car,’ he announces, and McBride snorts in the background while Peter gets the message, and flickers an eyelid to show him so. ‘Car, Peter, I want the car, I want the car, I want-‘

‘Alright alright, you can go to the car, hush now.’

‘Car,’ he says again, and puts his hands in his jeans pocket, as if that’s final. Peter turns to McBride and the remaining Pat, and shrugs.

‘I’ll be back in ten minutes, okay?’

‘Aye g’on, get him out of here. Why’d you bring a fucking retard anyway?’

Peter clenches his jaw and does not deign to answer this question again. He just leads ‘Gerry’ to the door and out into the corridor that smells of cooking, and piss, and ancient concrete, and heads towards the stairs.

‘What’s the pr-‘

‘No,’ says Gerry, in a tone that suggests he does not want to speak. Peter gets that message too, and remains silent until they’re down at the base of the tower. The old Capri he bought still has all its wheels and side mirrors, probably because the word is out that he’s here talking to McBride. If he weren’t, there’d be nothing left but the frame by now.

Jim settles into the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard, and lights a cigarette. Peter takes it off him for a drag, which Jim only allows because he has to get back upstairs.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘What’s _your_ problem? You’re already holding Frank’s territory, you’ve got all the cards. He’s deciding he’s moving in, and you’re letting him as if he has a right to it.’

‘There’s only me in the room, and three of them. In case you hadn’t noticed, Jim, they’re all tooled up.’

‘So are you…oh, don’t look at me like that. Do you think I can’t tell when someone’s carrying a gun? And of course I don’t _know_ whether you’re a better shot than three drugged-up, alcoholic arseholes, but I’d hazard a guess you probably are.’

‘I don’t want to shoot anyone.’

Peter’s voice is soft. Jim does not have time for this right now. He has other things to be doing tonight, but it depends on the outcome of this deal.

‘I’m not saying you have to. I’m-‘

‘And you shouldn’t be here.’

His voice is still soft, but not gentle. Not filled with concern about having brought a teenage boy into gangster land, for which Jim is glad, but the sort of softness that says he knows the words coming are not going to go down well.

‘Oh?’ Jim says, and doesn’t look at him. ‘Why shouldn’t I be here?’

‘If you were here as _you_ it’d be different. I could have a nephew I’m training up. Making me turn up babysitting someone like Gerry – what’s the point? It makes me look weak. And don’t fucking tell me I don’t need to know. As you just said, I’m the one holding Frank’s territory, I’m the one holding the cards. What do you even want from this? What are you _doing_ here?’

Jim stifles a sigh. ‘You really don’t learn very fast, do you?’

‘Jim, I swear I will slap you, you arrogant little-‘

‘Oh, shut up.’ Rage flares again, and his left hand curls into a fist, down by his side where Peter can’t see. ‘We don’t have time for me to be explaining everything. Why don’t you just wrap it up and tell him you’ll meet tomorrow to agree the last details. Tell him you have to take Gerry home. You can come back tomorrow with your mates, even up the odds a bit.’

Peter looks mutinous, but he also visibly hesitates. Jim smiles on the inside, a warm burst of satisfaction.

‘My mates?’

‘Yeah.’ A pause, which stretches. ‘You know, the ones who set fire to Trinity for me. You paid them, so I bet they’d be willing to help again.’

‘Oh, right. Yeah.’

There’s the faintest touch of relief to Peter’s tone, hidden under annoyed dismissal. Jim watches from behind his eyes, calculating.

‘You’re staying here, then?’

Jim nods. Peter hands the cigarette back.

‘I thought you wanted to see this deal done tonight.’

‘I said I wanted to see some of the main players. The deal you do isn’t important to me.’

Peter pauses, the car door open a crack. His gaze flicks over Jim’s face, far too curious to be truly genuine. ‘I thought you _wanted_ to be my protégé? Or give that impression, at least.’

‘Mm. Who says I’m not?’

They stare at each other for a few seconds, until Jim smirks and looks away.

‘Go on. I really am bored. Don’t keep me waiting.’

Peter looks like he’s going to tell him to fuck off, but doesn’t in the end. Jim watches him walk back to the main door of the tower block, and all amusement drops from his features. Peter’s much less interesting when he’s curtailing himself, but he knows why he’s doing it. He doesn’t actually want Jim to fuck off, after all. That wouldn’t be good for either of them. Maybe he’s touchy because he really does have a mentally disabled nephew, albeit with a different name. It was in his file, but he’s not about to admit he’s read that.

He counts the steps Peter will be taking until his fag is gone, and he needs to move. The smell of burning plastic is in the air again. Jim shuts his eyes and tries to ignore it, but only for about five seconds. Then he pulls the Gerry persona on, shambles out of the car and walks to the back of Plunkett Tower, where the remains of the Ford Escort lie glowing.

He stares into the heart of it. There are empty glass bottles in the passenger seat footwell, charred black from the fire. Nothing else is recognisable, barring the seat frames. He is aware of the teenagers fifty feet away on the pile of rubble, and two of the three boys from earlier in a doorway, undoubtedly smoking or snorting some kind of drug. And a man in the shadows beyond them, waiting in silent darkness.

 

*

 

_Dublin, 1983._

_Christmas Eve._

 

He hasn’t really got a destination in mind, until he reaches the corner shop and turns right, and realises there was only one place he could conceivably go. But as soon as he decides that’s where he needs to be, he stops walking. It wouldn’t be smart to be seen walking up to the gates, and he doesn’t want to be dragged home. That would be worse than opening his own front door, and asking if it’s alright to come back in. Da and his belt would get involved at that point.

He retreats into the shop, and uses his teeth to get one oversized mitten off his hand. He’s got a bit of change in his jeans, enough for a Mars bar and a box of matches. Both go in his pocket and he asks in his smallest voice whether it’s possible to buy one paperclip with the 1p left over, because his mum needs one to fix a stocking but he couldn’t find one and now she’s cross, and…the woman behind the counter smiles indulgently, and picks up the clip he’d spotted resting on the edge of her till.

‘There you go, Jimmy. You don’t have to worry about the 1p, darlin’.’

He smiles gratefully and thanks her; a smile which disappears as he leaves the shop. He steps out of the way to let two breathless boys in, on their way to fuel up with crisps and lemonade before heading back out into the war. The whole green in the centre of the estate is a riot of teenage and pre-teen kids, mostly boys, yelling savagely as they sprint around flinging show and ice at each other. Many of the girls and younger children have retreated to safer spaces, either into front gardens where parents can keep the wild kids out, or at the smaller patches of grass leading into the alleys and corners that take people out of the centre and onto side streets. Two of these corners have been claimed as McGurk territory, entrance blocked to anyone under the age of fifteen and relinquished only as an older teen or adult demands to be let by. There’s a temporary cease fire as grown ups pass, and then battle recommences. Jim can see a few bloody noses in the melee, some tears, a few bruises and walking wounded. He tilts his head at the scene for a moment or two, and then walks to his right, away from his intended destination. There’s an alley that’ll bring him around to the back gate, and with any luck, everyone will be too busy with this mess to notice him.

 

*

 

_Dublin, 1993._

 

Jim remembers that last Christmas in Dublin as the first time he really understood the importance of a good plan. Doing things just because the opportunity presents itself is not the smartest move. He’s always ready to make the most of a stroke of luck, but it’s not so risky these days. He’s got enough control of his brain to see the consequences, think years ahead and plan accordingly, check for every possible outcome in the blink of an eye. At seven, every action was in service to his helpless rage at the world.

He stretches his neck to the side. He doesn’t like to think about it. It hurts in a way most things don’t. But it had been a valuable lesson, hadn’t it? Without realising the need for plans, he might not have got away with murder at age twelve. And what’s the best way to handle the current stroke of luck? – or misfortune, depending on how he views it. Acting like a mentally disabled idiot was always necessary this evening, but he didn’t realise how much until he noticed that man skulking in the shadows. His presence was always a possibility and Jim has been waiting to see him, or someone like him, for a couple of weeks now. It’s not as if he knows who the guy is, but that’s not important. They’re all the same.

He turns his head up to look for the window of Declan McBride’s flat. Gerry has no idea which it is, but Jim finds it at once, fixes the corner of his searching eye on it as his head moves back and forth in a show of looking. There’s no one at the window, no sign of Peter. There’s a phone in the flat, but Peter would only be able to use it in code – and anyway, the public phones down here have been destroyed for years. No one will be answering his call.

‘Oi! Gommo!’

Gerry is not aware of the shout, and pays no attention until it gets louder and a scrunched-up cider can lands on the concrete next to his feet. His head swings around, startled, and then turns to the can and, finally, searches out the direction it may have come from. The teenagers on the pile of rubble are all facing his way, standing up to see him better. He’s dressed for the part, in baggy jeans and oversized T-shirt, and knows exactly how pointless he looks. Jim hates having his hair brushed forward to make himself look stupid. He hates his own face when he makes it look gormless, but it’s not hard to do. And he’ll always do what’s necessary for a job, without qualms or hesitation. Davy has formed the impression over the years that he’s got a big ego, and Stevie’s always thought he’s an arrogant little prick. Arrogant, maybe; but ego is far from the truth. Or…okay, well, maybe he does. He admits it to himself sometimes. But he’s also never afraid to act like an idiot as long as it’s for a role. Act fallible, or stupid, or like there are things he doesn’t understand. Normal, in other words. He’s been doing it since he was twelve. 

He rocks on the balls of his feet, giving the impression of being soothed by the motion. Then he moves towards the teenagers, just a few steps before he starts walking backwards and forwards, then circles a little bit, like a man wrestling with indecision while clearly being someone not capable of making decisions at all. Then he returns to the burning car and stares into it vacantly, as if he’s forgotten the kids exist.

‘ _Oi!_ ’

Another cider can. Gerry jumps, and backs away. One or two of the lads are starting towards him, but they only take a few steps before stopping. One gestures him to come closer, but he’s spooked now and keeps moving away. Internally, he’s sighing. He could have just stayed in the car. It would have delayed this and allowed him to check who was watching at a more convenient, less painful time. But there’s no time like the present, right? And he’s never been afraid of pain.

‘C’mere, lad. We just wanna talk to you. Come on.’

Yet another can. This one is half full and it hits his shoe, spraying cider up his leg. He moves back faster and lets himself trip, falling onto his hands and backside before scrambling back up to his feet in obvious distress. The boys are laughing, high and bright with a manic edge he recognises from the times he’s done drugs himself. There are two girls, and one of them is laughing as well. The other is not, but not trying to stop her friends either.

‘No!’ he yells at them, and turns. Something hits him in the back – a stone, he thinks, and swears in his head again. Gerry stumbles forward, which means the next stone sails over his head and lands on the concrete in front of him. He rights himself and starts to run, uncoordinated and unsure of where to go. He can’t head straight back to the car, because Gerry won’t remember exactly where it is. And he wants to get a look at the voyeur in the dark anyway.

They’re running behind him, but there aren’t enough footsteps for it to be all the teenagers. He’s obviously not worth enough effort for all of them to move. Maybe two have been dispatched to drag him back, or maybe they’re the only ones really interested in playing with him. It doesn’t mean the next stone hurts any less, a tiny one with sharp edges that pings off his left ear. There’s an immediate rush of warmth, and a quiet _plunk_ as blood hits his T-shirt. Gerry veers sharply, crying out and smacking his hand to the side of his head as laughter bursts behind him.

‘Fuck off!’ comes a shrill voice, and he looks up to see the two boys from the fire earlier. Huddled in a fire exit doorway with a tinfoil wrap between them, they obviously don’t want to draw the attention of the older kids. Gerry swerves again, straight into the path of another stone which catches him on the arm. It allows him to run right past a solid patch of darkness, over six feet tall. Jim sees dark hair and a full moustache, with the weight of muscle hanging in his shoulders and upper arms. A man who looks fat, but powerful. Thick through the middle, thick in the neck, eyes hard as coal. _SAS_ , thinks Jim, the knowledge dropping as easily as rain into the sea. Special Forces – or ex, most likely – confirms everything he suspected in the length of one racing heartbeat.

The man does not move to help. He doesn’t look even a little bit interested, which is very _very_ good. Gerry takes the next stone to the head and falls, ripping his jeans at the knees. But it lets him move faster too, ducking into the space between Plunkett Tower and its nearest neighbour, Jim turning over his new information as Gerry tries to coordinate his body to sprint for the car. He makes it eventually, ripping the door open and throwing himself inside, slamming the door shut and getting it locked just as the first of the two youths round the corner and see him.

He curls into a ball on the passenger seat as they start to rock the car, yelling at him through the glass. He’s disappointed to be right, in a way. Not surprised, naturally. But it does mean he’s going to have to make a decision about his future more quickly than he’d like…and Peter might not enjoy the outcome.

 

*

 

_Dublin, 1983._

_Christmas Eve._

 

He’s been in the school when it’s almost empty before, but never as empty as this. He’s sat on a chair outside the headmaster’s office while the rest of the kids swarm out of the front gates, some of them being greeted by parents or grandparents, the rest just spreading out onto the estate in packs of four or six, gravitating towards their houses or places to play. He’s watched the buildings emptied out while waiting for mam or da to get here from work, so they can be ushered into the office and have the latest worry explained; that another child started crying after Jimmy spoke to them, and wouldn’t stop and wouldn’t tell what he said; that the computer wouldn’t work for anyone else after Jimmy had his turn on it; that he hasn’t said a single word this week, even when spoken to, and did they think, maybe, it was time to get someone in to speak to him? Or maybe…look at a special school?

But the school is never really empty in term time. There are teachers marking work, and an occasional after-school club, or rehearsal. And there are cleaners, of course. He knows it’s probably dead quiet at night, but he’s never been here then.

Now, the place feels…dormant. As if it knows it’s not going to be woken up in the morning at the call of a new bell. There will be no cleaners, no teachers, no meetings that make him want to howl in frustration until there’s no breath left in his body. He thinks, sometimes, it would be nice to not exist. Living is painful. He would like for it all to stop hurting.

But being made to stay late sometimes has its advantages. Keys left around, codes unattended. He had realised one day that access might be useful – you never knew what situations might turn up, after all – so he had whispered a few words to Ryan just before afternoon break. As soon as they got onto the playground, in a secluded area between the wall and the outside of the junior classrooms, Ryan had socked him on the jaw. Jimmy had run out into the open, with no sign of pain or distress. Ryan had chased, and as soon as they were in the peripheral vision of the teacher on duty, Jimmy had turned and punched him square on the nose.

There had been squeals, and blood. And trouble. No one had believed that Ryan hit first, as they never did. He’d only allowed it to keep things consistent, so Ryan would never consider it might have all been staged. That afternoon, as the school emptied and he was once more parked outside the headmaster’s office, he had waited until Mrs Bernard, the secretary, had gone to wash the coffee cups in the staff room. It had been simplicity itself to make an impression of the keys in her desk, and find the code for the alarm. He hasn’t got the keys with him today, because he didn’t know he was coming, but a paperclip works just as well if you know what you’re doing.

He pulls off a mitten, and enters the code now. The quiet warning beep falls silent, and he is alone. Solitude, for a few glorious hours. He grins, and drags his hat off. The heating is on a little bit, just enough to make sure the pipes don’t freeze over the winter holiday. He leaves his coat on, and fetches the spare keys from Mrs Bernard’s office so he can lock the door behind him. Then he heads to the TV room. There’s only one screen for the whole school, kept on a wheely desk so it can be transported to each different classroom. When not in use, it lives in an anteroom next to the staff lounge. There is also one single computer, a BBC. It’s completely useless, of course. It doesn’t do _anything_ , bar allow the most basic forays into text-based games, and programs to help juniors learn to tell the time. But Jim has been itching to get inside it, and figure out how it works. He knows there’s a formatted system disc somewhere. A few hours will be enough to learn every secret this thing has.

The disc is not by the computer, though. Game discs are usually held in individual teacher’s classrooms, kept under lock and key, along with the stationary, and textbooks, and anything the kids are not allowed to touch. A system disc is not a plaything though, so Jim heads into the staff room to look. Nothing. Magazines, and tea supplies. Curriculum notes, and notices on the board that include a Secret Santa sign-up, and the date and venue of the staff Christmas meal. Someone has brought in a tiny fake tree, and there’s tinsel stuck around the noticeboard with Sellotape. This is what teachers are interested in? _Nothing_? Jim tries to swallow disgust, fails, and heads back into Mrs Bernard’s domain. She doesn’t have a computer, but she does have a locked file cabinet. And Jim, of course, knows where to find the key.

He pulls his hat back on as he drags a chair over to it. It’s chilly. The cabinet is tall, and he is not. The key doesn’t want to go in the lock at first, because he’s kept his mitten on this time. Probably best not to leave fingerprints behind, even if he doesn’t intend for anyone to know he was here. It takes a bit of jiggling, and he swears in his head as the key slips from his grasp. And as he retrieves it and stands up, a snowball hits the glass by his head.

He ducks down, his heart thumping in his throat. Did they-?

‘There’s someone in the school!’

Shit.

Options stream through his mind. There are plenty of them, and he’s not really worried. He can’t be seen from here, if he stays under the window. He locked the door behind him when he came in.

‘Who is it? S’it a teacher? Sure, it’ll jus’ be Mac.’

Mac, the caretaker. He only lives a street away. It’s entirely possible someone could go and knock on his door, and find out if he knows there’s someone inside. Jimmy’s heart beats a little faster. If they find him in here, they’ll figure out he has a key. They won’t believe he can pick the lock. They still won’t be able to prove any of the things that have happened in the past, but their suspicions will be confirmed anyway. It’ll be enough. His parents might finally agree a special school is the best place for him.

‘It’s not Mac.’ The boy speaking is pressed up against the glass now, his breath fogging it. ‘It was a kid.’

Why didn’t he take more care? It’s not like him to be so lax. He curls up tighter, silent and cursing himself, careful not to make any sudden movements.

‘There’s no _kid_ in there. C’mon, the McGurks are fuckin’-‘

‘It was a kid! Hey! _Hey!_ C’mon an’ let us in!’

The boy starts bashing the glass with a flat, gloved palm, the thuds reverberating down the wall and into Jimmy’s ears, making the drums rattle and crash in his head. He can’t help it; he claps his ears over them to try and make it stop, his heart starting to thump in his throat.

‘I saw him! There, he’s there. C’mon an’ let us in, we’ll not tell.’

‘What d’you want in there for? D’you not have enough of school?’

‘We can hide from the McGurks, yeah? Get together, then drive them back. G’on and get Steve Moriarty, he’s in the shop.’

Shit shit _shit_. Jimmy swallows hard, and his eyes flit left and right. Stevie will make it a thousand times worse. He’ll either use the situation as blackmail, because he’ll know Jimmy won’t want anyone to know he was in here. But more likely, he won’t think that far ahead. He’ll just tell, and grin like a moron as Jimmy’s flayed alive with their father’s belt. He won’t care it’s Christmas Eve, and nor will Da. And there won’t be any presents after this. He’ll have to sit and watch everyone else open theirs, and get nothing.

He swallows again, pushing a thick ball of fear and anger down his throat. It isn’t fair. He just wanted some peace. He didn’t even want to go and play in the snow. If they’d let him alone, it would be alright.

‘Stevie! Over here!’

‘Fucking _what?_ I’m-‘

‘There’s a kid in the school.’

Stevie’s voice is immediately alert. ‘Is it a McGurk? Did the fuckers break in?’

‘Oh shit, I dunno. I never thought of that.’

‘Bet they did. We have to get ‘em out.’

There are voices behind Stevie, which means he’s brought his whole gang with him. They’ll be spreading out around the place pretty soon, which will cut off all exits. It’s only mid-afternoon, which means no cover of darkness for at least another hour. Even if none of them break in, which is bound to happen the more impatient they get, there’ll be no way he can get out.

‘I only saw one. He’s down on the floor there.’

‘Doesn’t mean there isn’t more. Daniel! Go an’ check the doors, or see if he broke a window to get in.’

‘If it is a McGurk, shouldn’t we get Mac? He’ll want to call the police.’

Stevie’s voice is contemplative when he replies. ‘Yeeeeeah. Maybe. We’ll see if we can get ‘em out first though, right?’

‘Okay.’

‘Right. Yep.’

Jimmy is not going to try and tell himself he isn’t worried. This could go very badly. But there’s no point trying to pretend they’ll give up right this second, and he needs to be move so they don’t know right where to find him. His chest is tight as he crawls to the end of the long window, and keeps his face turned away as he stretches up to the cord that’ll pull the blinds closed.

‘There he is! There he is, look, see? Stevie!’

Hands and faces thud against the glass, all trying to get a look. Jimmy yanks the cord, and feels a small wave of relief as they all turn into shadows, indistinguishable as anything but blobs behind the window cover. He scrambles to his feet, hampered by the too-tight boots and his overstuffed coat, and runs down the narrow corridor in the main schoolhouse. It’s an ancient old house, all turns and crooked corners, tiles and patches of damp in the corners of the high ceilings. It’s been a school for about a hundred years, but it used to just be a really big house. Plenty of places to hide, but not many exits. And he can’t climb to the upper levels, because he’ll never get down again. No, better to find the cellar. He’s never been down there, but he knows it exists. Logic dictates the entrance will be in the kitchen, and he knows where that is. He also knows getting to it will be a problem.

Running feet and raised voices follow him as he pants his way down the corridor. He can hear them calling to each other, and the thud of snow being thrown against the windows and walls. The kitchen is a floor below, and on the other side of the school assembly hall, which is a modern addition to the building. It’s wide, and long, with windows running down both sides of it. It’s a square box lifted into place, connecting the two old buildings. Back in the day, the kitchen was joined to the main house by a covered walkway, so servants could bring food over and serve it. The walkway is long since demolished, and this glass box lives in its place.

Jim peeks into the pane of the door, and tries to see out. There are boys either side of the hall, all armed with snowballs, all yelling at these phantom McGurk boys to get out of their school. Stevie’s one of them, taller and bigger than most. The epitome of an oversized lout, a playground bully…but they all seem to like him anyway. Jimmy can’t understand it. It makes no _sense_.

He retreats into a classroom, and climbs onto a high windowsill to see if they’ve left the back of the school unguarded. No such luck. More kids are arriving, drawn by the shouts and activity. At this rate, it’ll be no time at all before someone talks to a parent, or runs to get the caretaker. One hint that a kid is inside will be enough to draw adult attention, especially a kid who is not a pupil. Much as he hates this place with a burning passion, Jimmy cannot bear the idea of being sent to a special needs place. He needs somewhere _better_ , not worse. And if an adult comes in and finds him, and escorts him out with all those kids watching…no, he can’t stand it. They’ll all _know_. They’ll all think they were _right_. He can’t be the freak they all laugh at, not when they’re not fit to look at him. He can’t. He’d rather be dead.

‘If you don’t come out, we’ll come in!’

It’s his brother’s voice. It’s quickly followed by another, much closer.

‘I can see him, he’s in the classroom! Over here! Turner’s classroom!’

Jim retreats from the window. His hand brushes his coat, and he’s distracted by the rustle of plastic of his chocolate bar. And then…the rattle of the other thing in his pocket. The box of matches he’d bought to play with at home, because melting Stevie’s plastic soldiers is _fun_.

Oh. Oh, yes.

It’s really very simple. Isn’t it? He retreats further, out of this classroom and into the one next door. Make a noise in one place to distract from the sleight of hand elsewhere. He read about it in a book on magic. But there could be more to be gained from this particular trick, if he plays it right.

He takes three books off a shelf, and rips the pages out, screwed into loose balls. He places them under a wooden shelf, pushed together but not too tightly. So they’ve got room to burn, but not too fast. The shelf is thick, and will take quite a lot to catch fire – but it’ll smoke a good deal in the meantime.

One match is all is takes. He doesn’t need to think about what he’s going to do next, because as soon as the idea arrived in his head, the exact sequence of events necessary to make it happen were also there. He does not have to consider what to do, how to do it, or the consequences of his actions. They are simply _there_ , directions to be followed at will. It’s peaceful. There is no stress now, no panic. He knows this will work, so there is no need to worry.

The smoke is only a faint possibility of fire as he walks back up the corridor, humming to himself. He picks the classroom at the end of the building, three doors away, and rips more pages from books. When they’re smoking away, he crawls to the front door so he can’t be seen through the glass, and unlocks it silently. He has to be quick now. He needs their attention.

‘Stevie! He’s up here!’

There’s a rush of feet along the outside of the building. Jimmy retreats into the headmaster’s office, and calmly sets light to his chair. Then he picks up a paperweight from the secretary’s desk, and comes out to the corridor…and throws it at the front door, just as Stevie’s gang arrive around the corner.

It breaks the glass just above the handle. There are bellows from the kids outside, and Jimmy turns and _runs._

 ‘Oh shit. Shit! Stevie, look, quick!’

‘Get in after him!’

He can hear them rattling up to the front door, banging against the wood. The doorknob rattles, and he hears it clatter open as he runs, and runs, cursing his mother for putting him in these clothes. They’re far behind but they’re bigger, faster, and all he can do is keep going, and hope. 

 ‘Stevie…’

‘What? Come on! Find him!’

Doors open and close. Jim skids into the hall door, and takes a second to check there’s no one out there, watching. The coast is clear so he sprints across the hall and into the kitchen, gasping for breath as he falls to his hands and knees and crawls between the ovens and counters. If he’s seen now, it’s all over.

 ‘There’s…go and get someone. I’m going to get someone. Get Mac! They’re setting fire-‘

‘Christ, I’m getting’ my dad, he’ll-‘

‘Get and find ‘em!’

‘Break a window, let the smoke out!’

Jimmy smirks at that, because _morons_. He hears glass shatter a moment later, muted from the other building, but when he pokes his head above the row of sinks he sees smoke billowing of the side of the main house. There really will be fire now. He grabs the spare keys from his pocket, and searches through them to find the one for the back door.

It’s remarkably easy after that. He locks the door behind him, and hides the keys in an empty bin near the gate. He runs to the alleyway by the side of the school, and looks for all the world like one of the kids running up through the estate to see what all the commotion is. There are adults emerging from houses by now, and one of them is definitely on the phone to the fire brigade as she stands in her front door to watch. Jimmy just runs to the other kids though, out of breath as they all are, watching as smoke pours from the classroom window and flames start to lick at the bottom of the glass.

‘Jimmy, come here!’

He follows Davy’s voice and moves to him.  ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I was looking for you. Where’ve you been?’

‘I was the other side of the green. Where’s Stevie?’

‘I don’t-‘ Davy’s eyes turn to the school, dark and worried. ‘I think he’s in there. I heard them yelling his name.’

Jimmy forces tears to his eyes at once. He’s always found acting remarkably easy. ‘Go and get mam, Davy.’

‘No, you go. G’on, quick. Tell her they’ve called the fire brigade. Go _on_ , Jimmy.’

Jimmy turns and runs. He lets tears run down his face, and into his scarf. It’s not difficult because it’s getting colder now, and the air whips into his eyes. Dark too, with evening coming in. The sky promises more snow.

‘Mam! Mam!’ He batters at the door, and considers why he hasn’t had a key of his own house made yet. ‘Mam, the school’s on fire and Stevie’s in there!’

‘ _What?_ ’

The door flings open. Jimmy stands aside, and lets her run past. She yells, ‘stay here!’ over her shoulder, and he thinks, _I was going to_ as he shuts the door behind him.

The house is warm, and smells of baking. He’s grinning as he pulls the uncomfortable clothes off, and goes to find himself a glass of milk to go with the Mars bar in his coat. He helps himself to a mince pie off the table too, and is humming again as he makes his way up to his bedroom. Only one more job to do. A detour into Stevie’s room, where the matches get hidden in the bottom of his sock drawer. Somewhere nice and easy for his mother to find in a couple of days.

He pulls the curtains in his own bedroom, all the better to ignore the fire engine’s siren, and the annoying spin of blue light it sends across the estate. Everything makes so much _noise_. It’s so unnecessary. Jim finds a physics textbook, and makes himself comfortable on his bed. The milk is cold, and the mince pie warm and sweet. Perfection.

 

*

 

_Dublin, 1993._

 

‘Do you want to tell me what all this was about?’

Jim sits on Peter’s kitchen table, passive and blank, as his cuts are dabbed with cotton wool and warm water. He watches every move, and doesn’t flinch. The silence stretches. Jim is very aware of the smell of burning from the T-shirt balled up next to him, just as his coat had smelled that Christmas Eve. His mother always believed it was just from standing next to the school, because they had all smelled of smoke in the end. Especially Stevie. He couldn’t get it out of his skin for days.

‘How’s your son? Have you spoken to him recently?’

Peter’s hands only pause for an instant. One holds Jim at the side of his neck, the other presses to the nick on his ear. He sits in the grasp, as though Peter could take his throat and strangle him, and he’d allow it.

But then he’s released, and Jim watches as the wool goes to the water, and comes back to keep tending him.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘So you don’t forget that I know things about you, Peter. That we’re doing things my way because I’m a lot smarter than you. And you don’t _really_ doubt I mean it when I say I’ll fuck you over if you mess with me.’

‘You say a lot of things, Jim.’

‘Do I, though?’

Peter’s face is calm. Jim would admire his fortitude, if it weren’t stupid. Because Peter might think Jim’s unhinged, but he also doesn’t know what he’s capable of. He thinks he can win, and Jim hasn’t really given him reason to think otherwise. But that can be changed.

Peter drops his hands. ‘I should never have slept with you.’

‘No, probably not. But you did, because you wanted to. And you’re interested. And…many other reasons, I should think.’

He could spell them out, but maybe he doesn’t need to. Peter looks down, then to the side. Jim rolls his eyes a bit, but not so it can be seen.

‘I don’t like what’s going to happen, Jim. You don’t understand.’

‘There’s very little I don’t understand. You should give me more credit, and stop _thinking_ so much. It doesn’t suit you.’

Peter’s jaw tightens. ‘You’re an asshole.’

‘Yes. But you’re the only vaguely interesting person I know, Peter.’ He makes his voice just a little pleading. Just the tiniest, barely-there touch. Just enough to make it seem an accident. ‘You’re the only person who’d run two drugged up assholes away from me, and drive me to safety. And we do have fun, don’t we? I’m going to help you get what you want, and you’re going to help me get what I want. Nothing else really matters.’

Peter steps back, watching Jim’s face. Jim lets him look, appearing sincere, though there’s not a chance Peter can give him anything that really matters. Only one person can do that, and he’s too useless to play.

‘I need to think.’

‘Okay.’

He slides off the table, and picks his T-shirt up. Peter doesn’t watch as he pulls it on, and straightens his hair out. Jim looks him up and down and then walks to the front door, already living in tomorrow and the day after, watching how all this will play out.

‘Jim?’

He stills, and looks back over his shoulder.

‘Did you kill Frank Kavanagh?’

Peter looks sad, and resigned. It’s pathetic, really. A grown man, who just a couple of weeks ago looked so sturdy and strong, now so much weaker. They haven’t even _started_ to play, and he already can’t keep up. Jim feels a stab of hatred, but nothing shows on his face.

‘No. I didn’t.’

Peter nods once. He doesn’t look like he wants to believe it anymore, but he’ll maintain the fiction for now. And Jim will let him, because the truth about everything will become clear soon enough.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP).
> 
> Song: Hozier - Arsonist's Lullaby


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised when I started this chapter that the dude who died in the very _first_ chapter was called Declan...a name I reused later on, because I'm an idiot. So I changed it to Donal to avoid confusion, and this is the guy Jim's talking to here. Note to self: keep track of your own story better. :/

 

 

                                                                                                                       

_Brother, can you lend me your breath_

_‘cos I’m drowning, there’s no air left_

_Sister, can I look through your eyes_

_‘cos the darkness has swallowed my sight_

_Belfast. 1993._

 

 

‘Tommy?’

‘Aye. How are ya?’

‘Grand. You look-‘

Jim doesn’t help the man out, who flounders under the stare and eventually finishes with, ‘-ready to go?’

‘Aye,’ he says again. His accent has lost the rolling lilt of educated Dublin and dropped into the harsher, clipped-off tones of the Belfast working class. ‘Youse been waitin’ long?’

‘Nah. Few minutes.’ The man straightens from his lean on the wall, and chucks his fag butt away. He offers a hand stained with nicotine, which Jim shakes. ‘Donal O’Keefe. C’mon with me.’

‘Where we going? I was told to meet-‘

‘Yeah, yeah. Now we’re going somewhere else. C’mon.’

Donal walks in the direction of a terrible old Ford, dragging a pack of cigarettes from his faux-leather brown jacket, belly hanging over a belt pulled too tight. Jim looks around and takes in the estate they’re on the edge of, from the scraggly green in the middle with a horse grazing on a long rope, to the painted paramilitaries on the end of the nearest terrace, and a discarded shopping trolley lying on its side amid a random scattering of crisp packets and beer cans. The bus he just got off is chugging around the corner, faded green and cream and blowing black smoke out of its exhaust. Everything is faded, like an old photograph that’s been left in the sun, like this place is so poor even colour won’t bother to grace it.

‘Tommy?’

‘Yeah. Sorry. Comin’.’

He hefts his backpack over his shoulder and makes his way towards the car, taking with him a sense of something _beginning_.

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

Jim lies on the sofa in the living room with his eyes closed. Sweat prickles on his top lip. The only noise is the whirr of a remote-control car manoeuvring between chair legs and under the table, and the tap of the control stick when he pushes too hard to the left or right. And a thump or two from the back door; Stevie kicking his boots off onto the kitchen lino.

‘Lazy wee fecker.’

Jim does not deign to open his eyes. A newspaper lands square on his bare chest, and there’s a _floomph_ of expelled air as Stevie drops his arse into the old armchair by the door.

‘Did you see that?’

Jim crashes his car into Stevie’s ankle – square from the side, right on the bone – and opens his eyes, muttering, ‘sorry’ at all the swearing. He picks up the paper, where the headline screams **INTERPOL ON ALERT,** and goes on to claim that police forces and border controls around the world are ready to pounce, because it’s obvious the Book of Kells will have to be taken out of the country to be sold. Jim does not roll his eyes – only because Stevie’s in the room – folds the thing and tosses it down on the floor.

‘Weren’t you leaving soon?’

He says it casually, as if he hasn’t been marking the seconds off in his head. Stevie scratches his belly, and slouches lower in the chair. His socks have grass stains on them, and he smells of stale sweat and old beer. The stuff’s probably oozing out of his pores, the amount he’s drunk the last ten days.

‘Supposed to be tomorrow, but I’m going to stay another week.’

Fuck.

‘Why? I thought you had to get back to…report for duty, or whatever it is they do.’

Stevie shrugs, and pulls cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘I report in ten days. What am I going to do back in England? Sit around with Mam and Dad? I rang them yesterday, they don’t mind.’

‘You’ll have destroyed your liver in another ten days here. You won’t get to go fight at all.’

‘What do you care? You’d laugh, probably.’

He’s got him there. But Jim smiles like it’s a good joke, and Stevie relaxes a little. Loses a bit of the quiet tension he’s been carrying around since Jim threatened to gouge him with a spoon; the tension he’s been trying to pretend doesn’t exist by being extra loud and obnoxious.

‘What have you got on today?’

Jim moves one shoulder in what would be a shrug, and starts his car up again. It’s nimble, despite the explosive he’s packed into the plastic casing. He could drive it into Stevie’s ankle again, but this time take his leg off.

‘Dunno.’

‘Jesus. This is the intellectual life, is it? Lying on your back, playing with toys.’

‘That’s not just the intellectual life, Stevie, but you get arsey if I talk about it.’

It takes him an interminable amount of time, full seconds, to realise what Jim’s said. His face turns red and his jaw sticks out; mulish, angry.

‘You’re so smart, and you can’t resist bringing every conversation back to filth?’

‘Not every conversation. And I’ve never known you to get through one without remarking on some girl’s tits, or what the chances of you shagging her are.’

‘That’s different. S’just banter.’

‘It’s really not different, and my comments are also just banter.’

‘They’re not. You’re disgusting. No one wants to hear that shit.’

Jim would sigh if any of this were worth it. It’s too easy to wind Stevie up. There’s no fun to it. He drives his car ‘round and ‘round in circles, imagining the end of a fly, or a ship being pulled into a whirlpool. A slow death, plenty of time for someone to realise it’s coming and be scared about it. That would be more interesting than finishing it quickly. Jim thinks about Carl, and wonders how he’d do it now, if things had worked out differently. If he’d put up with the laughing for years more, and what would have happened to him if he had.

‘I said, no one wants to hear that shit.’

‘I heard you. I’m ignoring you, Stevie. Though the fact you have to be told makes me-‘ Jim cuts off, all energy leaving him. Just…no.

‘Makes you what?’

‘Nothing. Look at that. You’re so boring, I can’t make it to the end of a sentence.’

‘Jesus, you’re a wanker.’ Stevie gets up in a huff, making the armchair fart and wafting beer and B.O across the room. ‘I’m away for a bath.’

‘Thank God for that,’ he mutters, but if his brother hears he lets it go. He drives the car after him though, keeping it close enough to almost, but not quite, touch his heels. Stevie might turn around and kick it. The chances of it making the thing explode are minimal – virtually non-existent – but he can dream.

Better, he could just make it happen. So much more fun than dreaming.

‘Would you fuck off with your wee car!’

Jim makes it follow him to the base of the stairs, then drives it round and round in circles, whirring away until Stevie’s swearing has made it all the way to his bedroom, cut off when he slams his door closed.

 

*

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

Jim’s first impression of the IRA is that they’re stupid. Not that it’s unusual to bring kids into a pub in Ireland, or England for that matter, but not _this_ sort of pub. This is not family-friendly; there is no play area in a nice sunny beer garden; no large tables for family dining, nothing but ancient stools at the bar and then a wide expanse of old wooden floor until you reach some tables and mis-matched chairs on the other side of the room. The place is rotten with smoke, the walls stained yellow and brown with it. The only nod towards decoration is the multitude of Irish tricolour flags hanging from the ceiling and over the bar. They might as well have written ‘IRA outpost’ over the door in neon letters, but Jim knows it doesn’t matter either way. The police, the Army, and every protestant group out there; they’ll all know what this place is, and what goes on here. 

He would still rather not have been walked in through the front door. He’s never been here before, so anyone watching is bound to get curious. He’s passing himself off as the cousin of a Ra sympathiser in Dublin, but the whole organisation is rife with informants, either willing or not, and if there’s one in this room who’re about to pass his description off to English ears, he’ll need to take steps to follow where that information goes after all this.

‘Tommy, is it?’

‘Aye. And you’ll be Fergus.’

‘Aye.’

They shake hands. Fergus Houlihan looks like a boxer, and a glance at his knuckles confirms it. Jim takes him in at a glance, from the grey hair above his ears that gives way to full black on the rest of his head, the broad and well-muscled shoulders, thick chest and neck, and what once would have been a nicely tapered waist has given way to a ring of fat that hangs over his belt. He’s still in better shape than Donal, who wheezes even when sitting down, his arse hanging off either side of his bar stool.

‘You’re younger than I was expecting.’

‘I’m not. I just look it. I’ve got my passport if you want to check.’

Fergus waves the offer off, with a, ‘don’t care,’ and drops Jim’s hand. It’s a good thing, because while Jim does have a fake passport carrying his fake name, it’s not perfect enough to satisfy him it’ll pass an educated gaze. A glance would be fine, but he’s not going to assume everyone in this organisation is completely dumb, even if the fact they would join the IRA proves it. He’s here to use them precisely because they know things he doesn’t – yet – and when he’s squeezed them dry, he’ll gladly consign them to his mental scrapheap, along with everyone else he’s met in his life thus far.

‘What’ll you have to drink, lad?’

‘Wouldn’t mind a pint, thanks. Lager.’

Fergus nods lazily towards the bar. A bottle blonde hoists her heavy top half upright and finds a glass from above her head. There’s only one other person in the room, a man in his fifties with salt and pepper hair, chain smoking over a pint of Guinness, watching them talk. Tommy nods at him, and he just sits there, eyes moving from him, to Fergus, to Donal and back again.

‘That’s Colm.’

‘H’lo, Colm.’

There’s no reply. Jim surveys him from behind Tommy’s uninterested face, and continues thinking about him when his gaze has moved elsewhere.

‘Are we waiting for someone?’ he asks, when the woman has brought him his drink and waved away the offer of a couple of quid. Fergus lights another fag, and settles back in his seat.

‘Sit yourself down, Tommy. There’s a long evenin’ ahead of us.’

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

His ear hurts. So does his back, a niggling ache that turns sharp when he twists or turns over in bed. He contemplates going back to the estate and finding those boys, because it wouldn’t be hard to teach them a lesson. Too easy, so he dismisses the idea. Their violence helped his disguise, and that earns them a pass. Or maybe he’ll just set Peter on them, which would be kind by comparison.

The car’s whirring is annoying. He stops it. And then the silence is annoying, so he starts it back up again, slower, creeping around the floor as if searching out the perfect place to rest. A corner where it can be left alone, overlooked? Or somewhere in the way, where it’ll cause the most damage when it blows up? Somewhere obvious, innocent until a certain button is pressed. He does think it’d be funny to take Stevie’s leg off, if it didn’t mean they’d be stuck with him in this part of the world.

He tosses the remote down, and tries to stop the silence pressing in. It clashes horribly with the noise raging between his ears, every permutation of his current problem streaming through his mind, over and over even though he already _knows_ all of this, he knows what he’s going to do and how it’s going to play out; he knows how everyone will react and what the outcome will be. The only thing he doesn’t know is what to do _next_. It’s not the sort of decision to take lightly and it is, horribly, not something logic can really give him an answer to. It sits in the middle of his brain while everything circles around it, weaving in and out of each other, locking pieces and letting go, resolving and changing, melting from one phase to another…but none of those pieces touch the main issue, none of them can tell him-

‘Jimmy! Fuck’s sake, _Jimmy!_ D’you hear that? Get off your arse.’

He opens his eyes. Stevie’s on the landing above, bath water running, phone ringing.

‘The phone’s ringing.’

He curls up and dies a bit inside, and tries to find the family-friendly face that’s nearly outlived its usefulness. ‘Right, got it.’

‘Lazy fucking-‘

The bathroom door slams. Jim rolls his eyes, and picks the phone up. ‘Hello?’

‘Jimmy. How are ya, darlin’?’

‘Oh, hello Mum.’ _God_. ‘Alright?’

‘Aye, we’re fine. Well, your Da’s got that foot thing again, and the chemist hasn’t got any of that powder he…‘ _God God God,_ can he just _die_ , ‘…but they think it’ll be in by Tuesday. You boys behaving yourselves?’

‘Nah, Mam. Davy’s taken up heroin, Stevie’s got at least three girls pregnant, and I thought maybe I’d run off with a man, burning Bibles as I go.’

‘Cheeky beggar. Will you be in on Wednesday afternoon, or are you at the university?’

…uh oh.

‘Supervision in the morning. Then nothing. Why?’ Please please please not…

‘Well, we thought we’d come over seeing as Stevie’s staying another week. Last chance for us all to be together, and Aunt Ida’s back in hospital so we can go see her. You or Stevie can come and get us from the airport, aye?’

Jim rests his forehead on the wall. The heat has nothing to do with the way his chest feels tight. But he forces a smile just so it will be evident in his voice when he replies, ‘aye, ‘course. I ‘spect Stevie can borrow a car off one of his mates to get you. Or I’ll grab a taxi, it’s no bother.’

‘Have you not got a mate you can borrow a car off yet?’

She’s teasing, and he knows she’s teasing, and something twists inside him so hard he could choke. ‘I do, yeah, but he’ll be at work. They will. In the afternoon, you know.’

‘Oh aye, ‘course. I’m only playing with you, love. Half three outside the terminal, okay? Make sure you’ve got teabags in, I don’t want to be bringing them from here.’

‘Alright, Mum. See you Wednesday.’

‘Love you, Jimmy. Same to your brothers.’

He puts the receiver down, and exhales. When Stevie showed up, he thought he had the whole script for his visit written out. And now…not so much.

‘Who was it? Jimmy, was it Mark?’

He gathers himself. The world feels a little off-kilter. ‘It was Mum. They’re coming over. You’ve to pick them up from the airport on Wednesday.’

‘Oh.’ Stevie sounds a little surprised, but not annoyed. How can he not sound annoyed? ‘Alright, then.’

Is this how normal people deal with family? They’re just…okay with them being around? Happy to sit around and talk about who’s in hospital, and what’s on TV, and what they’re going to eat for dinner? Oh God, they’re going to go out for a family meal, aren’t they? They always insist on it. They think it’s _nice_.

Jim swallows, and reminds himself to breathe. A few days to get through, and then they’ll go and it’ll only be Davy left. He can deal with that. It’ll be fine. He knows just what to do with Davy.

 

*

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

The pub is half full. It’s not easy to tell because it’s so full of smoke, but Jim’s been keeping an eye on how many people have been walking though the door. It’s not a big place, though it does have a room at the back. A function room, apparently, but he can imagine the sort of parties it’s seen. Fergus keeps disappearing into it with one guy or another, sometimes a pair of them. He mostly ignores ‘Tommy’, which is just fine. Jim likes having the time to watch, and being overlooked is always – almost always – funny. Eventually it’s his turn; when he comes out of the bathroom, Fergus is waiting for him and indicates he should follow with a jerk of his chin.

The room isn’t very big. It’s dusty and sparse, and there are chairs and tables stacked up as if the whole place has been cleared to make a dance floor. Only one table remains, and it’s down at the far end. Jim counts his steps as they walk to it. The only other way out is the fire exit which, he notices, is at least twenty paces away. If something were to happen and Fergus yelled, his men could stream in from the bar and block any escape within ten seconds. Less, if they just want to get their bodies in the doorway to trap someone in.

‘So, you’re Lachlan’s cousin.’

‘Aye, s’right.’

‘I’ve spoken to him. He vouches for you. Says you’re a smart wee bastard, and you’ve spent a lot of time in England.’

‘Aye.’

‘So what’re you doing back here?’

‘Family moved back. Mam’s on her own now. I’m the eldest, I’ve got to bring some money in.’

‘And where’re they at?’

‘Derry. I’ve got six wee brothers and sisters, y’know?’

‘Aye, Lachlan said so.’

Jim has never met Lachlan. He has met the real Tommy, who furnished every aspect of his life – such as it is – for Jim to use, in return for settlement of his gambling debts and the promise that his mother would never know how close she came to losing the family home. Tommy _is_ a smart kid by normal people’s standards, certainly smart enough to recognise that Jim wasn’t kidding when he outlined the ways in which he’ll ruin his family if any of this gets out. Truth is, he’s not feeling good about the Tommy situation. It feels like a loose end. Particularly as he does not have the money to cover the debts he said he would…but he does have a certain piece of information on the man who _owns_ the debt. The guy does not like being blackmailed – hardly Jim’s problem – but he’s agreed to hold off on collecting until he gets the all-clear, on the proviso that he’ll get his money eventually. Jim’s pretty sure he can be relied on to clear that loose end away as soon as he’s done.

Fergus is eyeing him over. Jim counts milliseconds as he waits, slicing the world into numbers to keep himself from going crazy. All this _waiting_ while they make their minds up, as if it matters a single iota what any of them think.

‘Aye,’ Fergus says, eventually. ‘Well, Lachlan’s a good man. If he vouches for you, we’ll give you your try. Do okay, you’ll get sworn in. But what is it you’re wanting from us, lad?’

‘I want to fight.’ Tommy taught him what to say. He doesn’t want to join up himself, but there’s not a Catholic boy from the north who doesn’t know _someone_ who knows how to get into the IRA. ‘I want to do what it takes.’

‘And…?’

He looks sheepish. ‘…and I want to make some money while I do it.’

Fergus smiles for the first time. It’s nice, actually. He’s got a handsome face, he looks like someone’s dad, if a bit rough. Good hair. But those knuckles say everything anyone needs to know. This guy might be dumb as a bag of rocks by Jim’s standards, but he knows what violence is and he’s not afraid of it.

‘It’s okay to say it, Tommy. We’ve all got to make a living – and if it’s a big ‘fuck you’ to the Prods and the English, then you fill your boots, lad. You’ll be with the right people for it.’

A man comes to the doorway, and leans on it. He’s smoking too. Literally everyone smokes. Jim’s sick of it already.

‘Are we ready, Fergus? Is he alright?’

‘Aye, he’s alright. Tommy, this is Jack. You stick with him and Donal, and you’ll be just fine.’

Jim looks Jack up and down. Early twenties, cocky, thinks he’s hard. Drinker, drug user. The worst fashion sense Jim has ever seen; it may be 1993, but there is no excuse for a shell suit and baseball cap. Just none.

‘How are ya?’ he says cautiously, and Jack nods at him.

‘Grand. Grab a chair, fella. Time for a wee meetin’.’

 

*

 

  _Dublin. 1993._

 

Davy’s brought Chinese home. The living room and kitchen stinks of rice, and sweet and sour, and ribs, and chow mein. And chips, because Stevie’s a Neanderthal.

‘You owe me a fiver,’ Davy says. Jim takes one from his pocket and hands it over. It’s a bit rich, considering he didn’t _ask_ for Chinese, but fine. He’s not about to learn to cook.

‘Stevie, you owe David a fiver.’

‘Fuck off.’ Stevie walks into the kitchen with his mouth full of chips, and gets a beer out of the fridge. ‘Either of you girls want one?’

Jim’s about to say _no_ , on principal as much as anything, but Davy shoots him a look that’s almost a plea. And he’s going to have to get into a certain mindset if their parents are coming, so he nods instead and tries to be polite about it. ‘Alright. Thanks.’

Stevie takes a can, shakes it up hard, then tosses it at him. ‘You owe me a quid.’ He hands one to Davy and walks out. Jim resists the urge to fling the thing at the back of his head, swallows a response, and gets up to change it for a new one.

‘Did you have another row?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

Jim closes the fridge door. ‘He hates me. It’s not news.’

‘He…what? He doesn’t hate you.’

Jim scoffs and turns, and is confronted with Davy looking genuinely confused. ‘Are you joking?’

‘Uh…no. Are you?’

‘No.’

He cracks his beer open. Davy does too, it seems more for something to do than an actual desire to drink. ‘You get on his nerves, and he doesn’t even pretend to understand you. But he doesn’t hate you. You’re his little brother, he - - well, he-‘

Ugh, no.  Jim shakes his head. ‘Just don’t.’

‘What?’ There’s sudden defiance. ‘Why shouldn’t I? He does love you, we all do. You’re our brother. What the hell’s wrong with that?’

‘Christ, you’re gayer than I am. Can you not just…not?’

‘ _What?_ ’

The idea of having to explain anything makes him want to die. But again, he remembers their parents are coming. He has to appear their kind of normal. ‘Fine, whatever. I just don’t know when you turned into someone who has to tell me stuff like that.’

‘Since you appear to think that everyone hates you? And you don’t actually even-‘

‘I didn’t say everyone, I said him. I don’t what?’

Jim has no idea how this blew up from nothing, and Davy obviously wishes he never started it, but tough. He sighs. ‘You don’t seem to care whether we do or not. It reminds me of how you used to be.’

‘And you think bringing a Chinese home’ll make it better?’

‘I don’t fucking know! I just know you’ve been weird recently, alright? And you can say it’s because of Stevie, but I don’t think so.’

‘What’s because of me?’

Stevie’s back in the doorway, forking noodles into his mouth from a silver container. He’s already got sauce on his T shirt. Jim looks at the floor. ‘Doesn’t matter. David’s just being soft.’

‘He’s always soft. Are you two coming to watch TV, or not?’

Davy strides out with his plate in his hand. Stevie’s already commandeered the one armchair, so when Jim follows he’s forced to share the sofa with a silent and mulish middle brother. He picks at his rice, ignoring Stevie’s usual comments about the girls on TV, and Davy’s silence.

‘Jesus an’ Mary, what the hell’s wrong with you two? You know that after next week, you won’t see me for years, right? I get that he-‘ Stevie jerks his thumb at Jim, ‘-doesn’t give a toss, but I didn’t think you’d be like this, Davy.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ Jim feels the sofa move as Davy sighs. ‘It was just a bad day at work.’

‘Alright, well, if you’re both going to sit there with faces on you, I’m going out.’ Stevie gets up, and snatches his keys up off the sideboard. ‘You’re both – oh, fuck it. I don’t care. And I fully intend to pull tonight, so if you’ve earplugs stashed in your rooms instead of porn like normal people, make sure you put ‘em in later.’

The house settles in the wake of the front door slamming. The TV lets out its canned laughter, until Davy finds the remote and switches it off.

‘What’s going on with you?’

He doesn’t give up easily, Jim will give him that. But even if the man were capable of understanding, would he even want to know? What’s he going to do about it?

‘I just started uni, and I don’t like Stevie being here. You know that.’

But Davy’s shaking his head. ‘No. It’s not just that. I know we’re all stupid compared to you Jimmy, but even stupid people can tell when there’s something up. Is it to do with that boy?’

The image of Sherlock’s photo flashes back to his mind, bringing a stab of fury with it. At Davy for daring to mention it; at Sherlock for being Sherlock.

‘No.’

‘You can tell me, I’m not – I don’t think the same way Stevie does. If you like boys, it doesn’t matter to me.’

 _Breathe breathe breathe_ , he thinks, and fails to follow through. ‘David, I don’t-

‘- _care_ , right, yeah, I know. Doesn’t matter to you if I approve or not. It’s like talking to a wall, trying to have a conversation with you.’

‘Then stop trying.’

‘No, I won’t. You’re my _brother_.’  Davy’s on his feet suddenly, staring down and then starting to pace. ‘I remember when you were young, Jimmy. You weren’t normal. And then you were, and everything was a lot better. And now…I can’t see that again, okay? I thought you’d grown out of it.’

This could almost be funny. It might be, later. But it might not, considering the catalyst for the change in his behaviour. He does not want Davy to think too hard about when and why things got better. And he really doesn’t want this conversation coming up with their parents, because they’re awful enough at the best of times.

‘I’ve never been normal,’ he says, carefully. ‘I’m too clever to be normal.’

‘Yeah, I know. But…you know what I mean.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yeah.’

Jim looks up. Davy falters. He visibly swallows, and then licks his lips. Jim is reminded to keep his face masked, to make it benign enough for company.

‘…I know you’re the reason Stevie broke his leg that time. I know you made him trip down the stairs.’

 _Careful_ , he thinks, and makes sure no expression shows. Makes sure his tone is measured. ‘Where’s this coming from?’

‘The other night. When you said you’d take his eye out with a spoon – you weren’t joking.’

‘-fuck’s sake, of course I was j-‘

‘No. No, you weren’t.’

Jim takes a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, and lights one. They’re Stevie’s but he hasn’t noticed they’re missing. ‘David, you’re the one being weird.’

‘I’m _not_ , I’m fucking _not_. You’ve – look, Mum and Dad’ll be here in a few days, and we – you - can’t be like this. Did you know she’s been back to the hospital? Her cancer might be back, but-‘

He cuts off. Jim smokes, and watches him. And fervently hopes the cancer is not back, because it was tedious enough the first time ‘round. All the hospitals, and the _concern_ , and the endless fuss. ‘She told you? Does Stevie know?’

‘No.’

‘She only told you.’

Davy waves a hand, as if that’s enough to make him not ask any more. ‘He’s going away. You’re here. She didn’t want to worry anyone before she knew for sure.’

‘But she told you.’

‘I happened to be home for the weekend when she came back from the doctor’s. Alright? That’s the only reason.’

If their mum dies, their dad won’t be able to look after himself. He’s useless. Jim smokes more, watches, thinks it over.

‘So if you could just – I don’t know, find the mood that makes you bearable to live with while they’re here. Try not to push Stevie down any more stairs.’

‘I didn’t push anyone anywhere.’

‘Oh no, yeah, sorry.’ A dry snort of laughter. ‘That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Though you’d have got away with it, because they’d think you were too young to know better.’

‘…I was six, wasn’t I?’

Davy swivels so their eyes meet. Identical eyes. It’s always been uncanny, the way they look like each other. ‘Like I said, they’d think you were too young.’

It’s tempting to let the façade drop. To just show him a bit of what he’s dealing with. But it would be pure ego, just showing off. Jim will never be that stupid. ‘I think you’ve built it up in your head,’ he says, calmly. ‘Stevie falling down those stairs was an accident. I was asleep when it happened.’

‘You’re a liar.’

Really tempting. But no. Jim shakes his head slowly, giving nothing away. ‘You’re wrong, Davy.’

But his brother just stares at him, hands on his hips, jaw set. It might be intimidating if he were taller, or his eyes weren’t usually so soft, or he hadn’t been simmering on all this for days. He probably thinks he’s being scary, but it’s a bit like being attacked by a puppy. A lot of noise. No bite.

‘I’m not wrong. And it’s David. I’m not a boy anymore.’

Jim thinks that makes two of them, but he’s not going to say anything so obvious. He just shrugs, and looks down.

‘I’ll make up with Stevie before Mum gets here. He just needs to stop calling me disgusting.’

David visibly hesitates, like he wasn’t expecting him to give in. The air relaxes a little bit, and he shifts on his feet. ‘I don’t think he’ll ever be alright with you liking boys, but he won’t want a row when they’re here either. Just call a truce until after he’s gone, and you won’t have to hear it again. He’ll agree to that.’

‘I’ll still know he thinks it.’

Jim looks up when David tuts. He’s quite enjoying this show. ‘Jimmy, you don’t _care_ that he thinks it. Or am I supposed to believe that deep down, you really do? Because I’ll try if you want, but it’ll be an effort.’

He gives the appearance of considering this. He’s calculating though, watching David from the further parts of his brain, the bits that have no connection to the outside world at all. The bits that tell the truth about how things are, and the sort of person he really is.

‘Fine,’ he concedes, with a hint of _you got me_ in his tone. ‘I really don’t care what he thinks. I don’t like him. I want him to shut the fuck up.’

‘Yeah, he’s a pain. But he’s our brother.’

 _I don’t care_ , he thinks, and he’s still not lying. But he nods. Fine. David exhales, and picks up Stevie’s dinner plate from the arm of the chair where he left it.

‘You know the reason he doesn’t get you?’

 _Yes_. _All of them_.

Jim shakes his head.

‘Because he’s a pain, and he’s loud, and he smells, and he calls us names…but he’d do anything for us, if we needed him to. Just like he’ll be nice when Mum’s here and not swear in front of her, and he’ll call her from basic training to find out how she is if she has to go back into chemo. He’ll take Dad for a pint, and drive him to the chemist if he needs it. He’ll take the piss out of me liking trains, but he’ll make sure he invites me to the pub on Friday night before he leaves. And he may hate the fact you have sex with men, Jimmy, but he’ll make sure you come out with us too, and he’ll ring you to make sure you’re at his passing out parade, and he’ll be pleased as anything when you say he suits the uniform. ‘cause that’s what he’s like – and it’s everything you’re not.’

David’s in the doorway. Jim won’t look at him.

‘He’s a tosser, but he cares. We’re family. You…you’re just…I don’t know what you are, Jimmy. But you don’t care. You just pretend you do.’

He leaves. Jim takes a last drag of the cigarette, and holds the butt to the ashtray. It’s overflowing thanks to Stevie, and he makes the burning filter hover over the mess, smoke curling up over his fingers.

He didn’t think David had it in him. Not just to notice, but to come out and say it. Something must have happened today, but that’s not important. He can get that out of him tomorrow if it’s necessary.

Jim drops the butt, and watches it flicker out. He always knew David had suspicions about the night Stevie fell. They sort of talked about it at the time, but emotions were running high while he was still unconscious, and things that happen in the dark are easily passed off as accidents. Even if David had said anything someone could believe, so what? Jim was below the age of criminal responsibility. The only thing they could have done was finally send him to a special school, and there were any number of reasons why that could have happened anyway.

He stretches his head to the side. His ear still hurts. He needs to talk to Peter, because the man’s had enough time to ‘think’. He needs to get on with the next phase of this, and he needs to sort out the Book of Kells as well. That’s not something he should have hidden in his bedroom for much longer.

And now, David. Funny, he always thought it’d be Stevie he’d end up having to take care of. Not even _have_ to, really; it honestly wouldn’t be any hardship to be rid of him. David, though – he’s never considered that. David has always just been there, a sort of prop, an onlooker who wrings his hands and doesn’t say much. An audience member to gauge reactions off, someone to play to and with. The notion he might have ideas of his own is novel, and somewhat amusing. The notion he might spread those ideas is…troublesome.

The phone rings. David’s gone upstairs, leaving the washing up in the sink. There’s no sign he’s coming back down, so Jim gets up and answers it just to make the noise stop.

‘Jim.’

‘Peter. Why are you phoning here? You’ve got my pager.’

‘Yeah, well. Sorry. Can you come to mine?’

‘Depends. Are you finished thinking, or did you just want a fuck?’

‘Can’t I want both?’

‘Two things at once. You _are_ getting ambitious.’ Jim allows humour into his tone, but his mind is upstairs. ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

He hangs up. After a few seconds’ thought, he heads to David’s room.

‘It’s open.’

He’s lying on the bed, reading a comic book. He always was a prize nerd.

‘I do care. Not about what he thinks. Just…y’know. Family.’

A page curls down. Their eyes meet.

‘Prove it. When they’re here. Then I’ll admit I was wrong.’

They both know, Jim figures. That if he’s been faking it all these years, he’ll be faking these few days as well. That must be all David needs. The knowledge that he tried, and that little Jimmy can be made to play nice when it really matters. Perhaps it’s all he hopes for.

‘All right,’ he says. And David nods.

‘Lock the door if you’re going out,’ he says, and goes back to his comic. ‘And remember your keys. I’m not getting up to let either of you back in.’

Jim can’t help smiling as he gets ready to leave. David standing up for something and Peter having two separate thoughts at once. Who would have thought it was possible?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP?si=1Wb2gztySQySbsmfhpFOKg).
> 
> Song: The Rigs - We All Fall Down


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter contains some fairly graphic child abuse. Not that Jim thinks of it as child abuse, but he's mentally unbalanced. It absolutely is.
> 
> Also, you might notice the year has changed through the fic. This is not some deep and important time change, it's because I'm a fucking idiot who can't count to sixteen. :/
> 
> But mostly: trigger warning.

 

 

 

 _You get what you came for, what you stayed for_  
_I only know how to satisfy your craving_  
_This is what you crave_  
_Know what you're made of, what you're made of_  
_Flesh and bones won't lie_  
_They won't lie_

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

Peter’s kitchen is dark. Tidy. Cooler than the sweatbox the city has become. Jim runs his fingertips over the cheap plastic countertop, taken back to another kitchen not unlike this one. That one had been neat, too. But the units were not straight out of the 70s, and there had been pasta in jars and a mug tree next to an enormous microwave. Peter only has two mugs since Jim broke his favourite one. Both of them are cracked.

‘Where’re you?’

The fizz of a lighter. Cigarette smoke. It’s all he smells these days, thanks to his brother. He stretches his neck to the side.

‘I met my first boyfriend in a kitchen,’ he says.

Peter says nothing, but he can practically hear him thinking. Those cogs grind so slowly.

‘That’s…nice?’

‘Is it?’ Jim closes his eyes. He knows exactly what Peter’s about to say, because the man can’t say anything else. ‘Go on, then. Tell me your _thoughts_.’

‘I think…you were right about Declan McBride. I shouldn’t have let him dictate when I already hold Frank’s territory.’

‘What’re you going to do about it?’

‘You mean, am I going to go back and-‘

‘No, I mean Frank’s territory.’

‘Well – you said…’

‘What did I say?’

‘If I remember right, and I do, your words were, ‘guess who’s taking over’.’

That’s funny. ‘You thought I meant me?’

‘Didn’t you?’

Did he? Maybe, that night. But not really. He has no desire to get into drugs. It might be lucrative enough in the short term, but he can’t imagine a much more boring way of spending his time.

‘No. I meant you. Or I do now, at least. I’ll advise you if I can be bothered, but I don’t want it.’

There’s a long exhalation behind him. He smiles a little bit, because that takes him back too. The tenor of the lost breath had been different, and it had been much, much closer to his neck. But still.

‘I know you’re smart, Jim. And you’ve got balls. But do you really expect me to take orders from a sixteen-year-old? Look, fine, you’re…different. And I don’t think you’re joking when you keep bringing up my son. But how’s that going to look, me running Frank’s old patch on your instruction?’

‘Oh,’ he says, carelessly. ‘No one’ll know. Come here.’

‘What?’

‘Come here. Stand behind me.’

He hears Peter shifting on his chair. Smoking, contemplating the order. Jim waits, eyes closed. The air shifts eventually; closes in around his body as it compresses between them. He can feel it swarming around his skin. He should have worn shorts. He should take his shirt off. But he didn’t come here expecting to remember something so trivial.

‘This is how I met him.’

‘Who?’

Peter’s breath touches the top of his ear. He’s about the right height. Slimmer, though.

‘My first boyfriend.’

Peter says something. Asks a question, probably. Jim doesn’t reply, listening to three years ago. An early summer’s afternoon, almost as hot as this one. A large, open kitchen that looked over a dining table, and then French windows that opened onto a lawn. Pristine lines; the smell of cut grass. Boys running around in swimming shorts, and an enormous inflatable pool. Cormac Whelan’s thirteenth birthday party. A _very_ interesting day.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1989._

 

Cormac Whelan is a stupid boy. Jimmy has been to his house three times in the last month, which is enough for Cormac to believe they’re friends and invite him to his birthday party. Twelve boys, and two girls, and him. Jimmy sits on a plastic chair in the shade of the wall, and watches them all running about. It’s hard to fully understand; how the invitation to _this_ had caused such a stir in his house, with his mother being almost lost for words and Stevie taking the piss for two weeks. Okay, it’s his first ever invi…okay, no, not the first ever. There was one years and years ago, but it had gone…badly. He’s never been invited to another until now.

‘H’lo there, Jimmy.’

He looks up to Mr Whelan’s smiling face.

‘You look like you need a drink, young man.’

‘Thank you.’

He takes a lemonade and has a sip, setting the glass down next to the plate that Mr Whelan brought him a hotdog on, and then an extra burger when the other lads ran off to play football. He’d cried off, saying he was tired. Mrs Whelan patted him on the head and said it was fine. Sure it must be strange, coming to a party with boys you haven’t been to school with for years, right Jimmy? He was to sit himself down if that’s what he wanted. They’d see him right. Mr Whelan had joined in, saying he didn’t blame him. He was a rugby man, himself. Couldn’t see the appeal of football.

Jimmy nods. He doesn’t see the appeal of rugby either, but he doesn’t say so. He keeps things like that to himself since Carl died, just like he doesn’t roll his eyes at his mother’s pleased surprise at him being invited somewhere.

‘Is it nice being back for the summer?’

Mrs Whelan has gone off to supervise the game, but Mr Whelan sets his tray down. He’s a policeman. Jimmy is very _aware_ he’s a policeman, just as he’s become aware of other things on his previous three visits.

It is, after all, why he accepted this invitation.

‘Yes. I like Dublin better than Sussex.’

Which doesn’t mean he enjoys either of them, but he won’t say that either. Mr Whelan laughs, and nudges his fist against his knee.

‘But you’re shy, I can see that. You know, the boys won’t mind if you go and play with them.’

He shakes his head. Shyly. Mr Whelan regards him as if thinking it over. Then he stands up.

‘It’s up to you, lad. If you get bored watching, come on inside. There might be ice cream in there, you never know.’

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

Peter’s lips are nice, sucking gently at the back of his neck. His hands are almost too warm on his stomach, but Jim will allow it because it’s not his fault the weather has decided to be this way. He considers the man standing in the shadows in Darndale the night before. He might be watching right now. The thought makes his cock stir in his boxers, and give the slightest push back towards that mouth.

He wants to taunt Peter about having got over his misgivings, at least when it suits him. But that would only kill his libido, and Jim finds he’s up for a shag tonight. He can take the piss about it after, when he’s had what he wants. It’s not the first – or even the third, or the tenth – time he’s seen men lose rational thought when it comes to what they want in bed. But it does seem particularly prevalent in those who want to fuck boys far too young for them. Justification, of course. They need to be able to kid themselves. It’s funny. Also, laughable. Pathetic, in so many ways. He would give a lot for a man who feels no need to mask what he is, and what he wants, but he’s already pretty sure that’s never going to happen. Statistics say he cannot possibly be the only one in the world, but the odds of meeting a counterpart are looking increasingly small.

‘Shall we go to bed?’ says Peter, running his palms up Jim’s tacky skin, licking sweat off his neck, pulling his T-shirt up as he moves.

‘No. Here.’

‘Here?’

‘Mmm.’

What can he say? He’s in a nostalgic mood.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1989._

 

The ice cream is large, and on a stick. It’s thick and creamy, and covered in white chocolate. He stands at the kitchen counter, making the coating crack with his teeth, then nibbling the bits away before they flake off. He watches Mr Whelan close the French windows behind him.

‘You’ll have to eat it in here, Jimmy. I’ve told Mrs Whelan to keep the others outside. There’s not enough for everyone.’

He licks some of the ice cream softening under the chocolate. Mr Whelan walks to the fridge, and opens it up. A cool blast of air washes across his back, before the door shuts and takes it away. He hears a bottle being shaken behind him. Orange juice, probably; the man’s been adding it to the glass of clear liquid he’s been carrying around all day, the one that could be water or lemonade, but is probably vodka. Jimmy doesn’t blame him. If he had to run a party of pre-teen boys in his garden, he might drink too. Not that he’s really had alcohol, but it sounds like a nightmare.

Maybe even more of a nightmare for someone like Whelan, and for different reasons. Jimmy notes some ice cream has dripped to his fingers, so lifts his hand and licks it away. The bottle stops shaking behind him.

‘So how long are you here for, Jimmy? All summer?’

He nods. ‘Until the end of August. School starts first week of September in England, just like here.’

‘That’s good, then. Plenty of time to see your pals. Like Cormac, there – he was just saying yesterday it’s nice to have you around again.’

‘Cormac’s a good craic.’

‘Aye, he’s a good boy.’

An arm appears in Jimmy’s vision, stretching in front of him to pick up a bottle opener. For a few long moments, there’s a man pressed to his back, leaning him into the counter. His tongue stills on the ice cream. Whelan stills as he stretches.

‘You’re a good lad too, aren’t you? Good pals with my boy.’

Jim resumes his licking. Slowly, as if thinking it over. Eventually, he says, in a voice designed to be cautious but not discouraging, ‘dunno, Mr Whelan.’

Because Whelan is an adult, and a policeman. You shouldn’t lie to policeman, or adults. And you can’t yell at them to get off you, when they’ll just say you made it up.

More importantly, when you don’t want them to.

‘You don’t know?’

The weight lifts off him, but the presence behind him doesn’t move. Jim cracks chocolate with his teeth. Whelan starts opening a bottle of something. The glass keeps brushing his shoulder, and the cork squeaks as it’s screwed into.

He shrugs. How’s he supposed to know if he’s good or not? He’s twelve. He hears a laugh, and a hand pats him on the shoulder. Then it rubs a tiny circle and goes still, resting there.

‘I’m sure you’re a grand wee lad, Jimmy.’

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

‘Are you going to tell me about him?’

‘You want me to tell you about my first boyfriend when you’re fucking me?’ Jim stands easy, listening to the rustle of Peter’s shorts as he pushes them down his thighs. The pop of the cap on the lube he’d brought down from upstairs in anticipation. ‘Do you get off on hearing about other men? What if I tell you he was better than you?’

‘Was he better than me?’ A soft laugh. ‘I bet his cock wasn’t bigger.’

Jim huffs, pretending amusement. ‘It’s all relative.’

‘Oh?’

‘Never mind. And now’s not the time for penis envy. If you want me to think you’re better, maybe you’d better give me that cock so I can make a fair comparison.’

‘Oh, if you insist.’

He puts his palms flat on the counter as Peter hooks fingers in his jeans and his Calvin Kleins, and shoves them down to his knees. Breathes in, breathes out. Breathes in…and holds it, until it’s punched out of him at the first nudge of intrusion. Peter’s not lying about the size of him. It’s fucking glorious.

‘Tell me about him.’

Jim smiles, eyes closed. He stays silent as he feels himself stretching, relaxes to make it easier, loving the tension in Peter’s hands as he grips him, first at the waist and then a handful of butt cheek in each palm, spreading him open so he can watch himself push inside.

‘He didn’t fuck me in a kitchen. Not the first time.’

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1989._

 

Carl has been dead six weeks.

It’s still a piece of knowledge that gives him a thrill, but the fact of him being dead isn’t as strong as the thrill of having got away with it. And that thrill is not as strong as when he thinks of the name of someone who noticed what he did. But he can’t do anything about the second one at the moment; it’s a delicious treat that’ll be waiting for him when he gets back to England. In the meantime, he can just enjoy the knowledge that he did it, he killed him, he _murdered_ Carl. And no one has a clue.

It’s interesting, though. Sort of. He knew he wasn’t going to regret it – if he was, he wouldn’t have done it. He did expect to feel _more_ pleased. But in the end, it was just sort of…something that had to be done, so he did it. It’s easier to get on with life now, and the real satisfaction comes from knowing a speed bump has been smoothed away, and the road is now clear. Yes, he’s changed his behaviour since; yes, he knew he was going to have to beforehand. But it’s been easier than he thought it might be.

‘Are you, a good lad, Jimmy? Because I heard rumours. You weren’t.’

Oh? Interesting. He doesn’t have to fake the tension that ripples through him. A copper might have heard any number of things.

‘I heard you. Used to be bad, very bad. Do you know what happens… to bad boys?’

‘They get in trouble?’

‘They…they get in. Trouble.’

The fingers are very tight on his shoulder now. It’s annoying. And his ice cream is melting all over his fingers, and he can’t currently lick it off. He doesn’t enjoy being sticky.

‘Have I done something wrong, Mr Whelan?’

‘You…’

Jimmy licks his lips. Grips the edge of the counter with the hand not holding a lolly stick. His Speedos are digging into his hip. They’re too tight to accommodate him, along with a grown man’s penis thrusting between the top of his thighs.

‘…have you?’

‘Evidently,’ he mutters, too quiet for the word to carry. But it’s not like he’s complaining. This is why he’s here. Because if he can murder someone, he can do whatever the hell he likes. He can decide to satisfy his curiousity about sex. He can befriend the kid who has a father with wandering eyes, and subtly plant the suggestion of a pool party for his birthday. He can throw away his swimming shorts and ask his mum to replace them with Speedos. He can, apparently, stand still and do absolutely nothing, and it’s more than enough to excite a man into thrusting at him like a Jack Russell humping a cushion. And then grunt, and shove him so hard his stomach is squashed against the edge of the counter. And then pin him there, while wetness coats the back of his balls and starts to run down his leg.

He raises the remains of his ice cream, and starts to lick. Nope, doesn’t enjoy being sticky.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

‘I’ll tell you about him later. It’ll turn you on.’

‘Will it?’

‘Definitely.’

Jim keeps his breathing suitably laboured, and makes sure Peter’s hands don’t wander by making them hold the counter and then putting his own over them. He doesn’t need to know Jim’s only half hard, not when he’s enjoying himself so much. He doesn’t need to know that sex is, and has always been, a tool. That there are absolutely times when his body craves it and he goes out and finds what he wants, simply to satisfy the physical urge…but that is not connected to anything in his mind; it just is what it is. And then there are times like these, when he’ll do it and he’ll make himself come, but he could just as easily go and do something else. Read a book, do some coding. Make a snack, take a shower. Anything else, really.

And there are times like _then_ , when he didn’t really enjoy it at all. But he did want to learn; not just about sex itself, but what it did to people, why it was always such a massive deal. Every song on the radio is about love, or shagging, or both; every story harps on and on about it, plotlines and lifetimes given over to the pursuit of other people, in body or mind or soul. Pre-pubescent, he’d found it fascinating, like looking at moths pinned to a board. Humans, tethered by this need he didn’t understand. Of course he had to find someone to teach him.

Now…he understands. Logically. He doesn’t feel it, but he accepts that they do.

‘Fuck…Jim….oh _fuck_ …’

He looks back over his shoulder. Peter’s head is thrown back, throat exposed. If he twisted far enough, he could sink his teeth right into it. The man would be bleeding out before he knew what’d happened.

And he’d probably still come before he blacked out.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1989._

 

‘Well now Jimmy, what happened to you there?’

‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.’ He tries to make himself go red. It’s strangely difficult to make his skin look embarrassed when he doesn’t feel it, but he can do a convincing expression on his face. ‘Mr Whelan knocked the orange juice over. I’ve been helping him clean it up.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it. Oh…dear now, it’s all over your trunks. And your ice cream’s melted! G’on with you, I’ll clean this up. You go and jump in the pool to get it off you. You haven’t come to Cormac’s birthday to look after Mr Whelan’s mess.’

It’s all he can do not to laugh as he heads back out into the sun. It’s a relief to get into the water, that’s true. It’s hilarious the bloke thought pouring liquid over him ‘accidently’ would somehow mask what he was actually covered in, like it would miraculously erase the memory of his trunks being pulled down.

Not as hilarious as later, when Whelan hands him a party bag full of little toys and sweets, and a wrapped-up piece of birthday cake. When he murmurs, ‘what happens to bad boys who tell lies, Jimmy?’ _sotto voce_ , because really, if Jim were a regular boy he probably wouldn’t even make the connection between that, and the kitchen, and _I’ll get in trouble_. Maybe Whelan is giving him the benefit of the doubt, because everyone knows he’s smart. But Jim doesn’t think the man’s clever enough to think that through, he thinks he’s trusting ‘Jimmy’ won’t say anything out of shame, or because he’ll be afraid he won’t be believed. Whelan is a cop, after all. A pillar of the community.

It’s not as hilarious as two days later, when Jimmy knocks on his door. He’s wearing shorts and a vest, and carries a football he nicked off Stevie.

‘Can Cormac come out to play, Mr Whelan?’

Whelan blinks at him. He’s not that old, about thirty-five. Quite tall, but everyone’s tall to Jimmy. Strong, but with a bit of extra weight on his belly. And he’d obviously been napping in front of the TV, because his eyes are bleary and his hair’s sticking up on one side.

‘He’s, uh…he’s not here, Jimmy.’

They look at each other. Jimmy is well aware that Cormac’s off visiting his grandmother, because he was moaning about his mother forcing him to go the day before. They’ll be out all afternoon, and for dinner.

‘Will he be back soon?’

‘...yeah, I think so. Do you want to come in and wait?’

‘…all right. Thanks.’

He’s not offered an ice cream. He’s offered a drink, which he accepts. But he’s nervous, or something, or…something, and the glass slips from his hand. Whelan looks at him, then the mess, then him…and Jim smiles, and licks his lips.

And then looks as sorry as he can, because he has to give him a reason, doesn’t he? That’s the key with people like him. They have to be able to tell themselves there’s a motive for their behaviour. Justification. Anything other than the truth, because no one, _no one_ likes the truth.

‘Did you do that on purpose?’

‘No, Mr Whelan.’

‘You bloody…that’s so rude. What did I tell you about bad boys the other day, Jimmy?’

‘They get in trouble. I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…’

He tries not to grin as he’s dragged out of the kitchen. The more he says sorry, the tighter the grip on his wrist, the more force he’s pulled with. He’s yanked into a room with the curtains drawn tight, and there’s a very familiar sound after he’s told to bend down. The pop of metal through leather, the _clink_ of a buckle as it falls open – but this is not like when his father used to do it, this is not the promise of that kind of pain. But it’s exactly that sort of helplessness, and he feels a spike of something that could be fear – he’s not sure - when his face is shoved into the duvet and his shorts are tugged down his thighs. Something like fear but more like anger. A big man, exerting his authority. A weight he can’t hope to fight, even if it’s only the threat of it hovering above him, manifesting in the hand on the back of his neck. And then…pain. A lot of pain, but _new_ pain, pain he’s never felt before and never wants to again. Pain that screams and screams in his head, and from his head to his mouth and then into the palm clasped tight over his lips, holding them closed while he’s forced open from behind, spitted on something he’s too small to enjoy and vowing never, _never_ to do this again.

Except a few minutes later, when it’s over. And he realises that he didn’t think, and is still not thinking. That it hurts, but the backwash of adrenaline feels _good_. That his brain is calm and his body might ache, pinned as it is under this huge man who’s collapsed on top of him, but he feels _peace_.

He has never felt peace. Never in his life. So maybe it’ll always be like that. Maybe the pain will be worth it.

‘Ow,’ he says, and Whelan moves. He stands up, his huge hands tight on his hips. Jim feels his ass being drawn back up and tries to take his weight on his hands. His arms are shaking, and sweat drips off his forehead. Every time Whelan moves, a jagged spike of agony erupts between his legs.

‘It’s true, what they said about you. You’re a bad boy.’

A hand moves, and cups him. He wonders if he’s supposed to be embarrassed about being so undeveloped, but then – well, of course not. _Stupid_. That’s what the man _likes_.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, in his tiniest voice.

‘Are you? You turn up here and break things, you walk around in your Speedos, you bend over my bed. You know what happens to boys like you?’

‘They get in trouble.’

‘Worse. I’m a policeman, I know. I see it all the time. They go to _jail_ , Jimmy. And what do you suppose happens in jail?’

‘I don’t know.’

The hand strokes him. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to get hard or not, but it’s not going to happen. It hurts too much.

‘You don’t know. Then maybe you need teaching, so you learn what happens if you don’t behave.’

Both hands on his ass. His breath hisses out of him as they spread him, and Whelan slides free. It _stings_ , but God, it’s a relief. But he’s not allowed to collapse, it seems; he’s held there, thumbs holding him open, a trickle of wet irritating him as it slides down his crack to his balls.

And then he’s released.

‘I don’t know what time Cormac’ll be back. You’d better go home. I’ll tell him to ring you when he gets in.’

Jimmy rolls onto his side. Whelan steps back. He’s not actually sure his legs will hold him, because now he’s lying down they appear to be shaking. But it’s clear he can’t stay here, and he doesn’t want to anyway. So he nods and sits up, looking and feeling – genuinely – awkward while he pulls his pants and shorts back up.

‘I’m sorry for breaking your glass.’

‘Are you? Just remember, Jimmy-‘

He looks up, and he has to feign the expression of fear.

‘-what I do for a job. I know what happens to little boys who tell lies about things.’

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

It’s almost a shame it stopped hurting. But it taught a valuable lesson; how to contain agony, and then, after a week or two, how to enjoy it. There’s nothing as cathartic as pain and he has yet to find anything more successful at making his brain go quiet. Not that he’d call himself a masochist, exactly; his biggest enjoyment comes from manipulating other people into doing what he wants. But it’s a happy side-effect when it comes to people like Whelan, who have to be schooled into forgetting what’ll happen if they get caught. It’s laughably easy. It’s almost sad.

‘Jim. _Jim_ …’

Arms around his waist. Lips against his neck, and Peter’s sweaty forehead rubbing against his jaw as he moves. Jim leans his head back and wonders what Sherlock’s doing right now. Drugs, probably. He is definitely _not_ getting his ass fucked in a dark kitchen.

…but if he was, what would that be like?

There’s a gasp. Jim is surprised to realise it’s come from his own mouth. Peter groans in response and thrusts harder, and Jim blinks and then blinks again, finally swelling to a full erection. Sherlock Holmes, with his grey school trousers pulled down and that blazer and shirt pushed up his back, all pale and-

‘Fuck, Jim. _Fuck_ ohmy - oh, oh…’

He blinks it away. No, he won’t. No, Sherlock is not for that, that is not what he’s _for_ , it’s not them. Christ but it doesn’t matter now, Peter’s finally hit a rhythm he likes, just fast enough, just the right side of rough, almost painful. Not enough to stop him thinking, but enough to stop him analysing. And then there’s a hand and that’s rough too, and Jim shoves the thought of Sherlock Holmes away so he can focus on the cock bullying him open again and again; the fingers pinching and squeezing, tugging him until he throws his head back and shoots all over the cupboard door, clenching up so Peter loses it right after.

He swats the hand away almost at once, but lets the rest be. That climax was like a sudden punch to the gut…and he doesn’t mind being sticky anymore. Doesn’t love it, but doesn’t hate it either.

 

Later, there’s a cigarette. He’s allowed Peter to take him upstairs, and he perches on the mattress next to him, watching him lie there and smoke.

‘Are you going to tell me about him? You brought him up.’

Jim shrugs. ‘What do you need to know? He reminds me of you, that’s all.’

‘Because of the kitchen?’

‘Because you’re both fucking paedophiles, at least in the eyes of the law.’

The air disappears from the room. For one of them anyway. Not Jim. He looks amused, and takes the fag out of Peter’s hand a split-second before he sits bolt upright.

‘ _What?_ ’

‘You heard me.’ He shrugs. Smokes. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve no intention of using it against you, as long as you behave yourself.’

‘…so we’ve progressed, have we? Not just threatening my son, but this as well?’

‘I just said I wasn’t going to use it against you. I don’t need to. I just wish you’d admit what you are out loud. You already know it about yourself, it’s why you kept trying _not_ to fuck me. It’s why you secretly think it’s a good thing you haven’t seen your boy in years, in case you’re somehow tempted – which is ridiculous by the way, but that’s how your brain works. And anyway, I’m not really a child.’

Peter has gone white. It’s evident even in the darkness of the room. Jim has no doubt that if he put a hand to his forehead, it’d come away cold.

‘You’re sixteen.’

He shrugs again. ‘It’s just a number.’

‘It’s not. You don’t know how young you appear to everyone older than you.’

‘You don’t know how stupid you appear to me. It’s all relative.’

And he does wish people would stop judging him by the standards of ordinary people. It’s dull. Peter will never get this though, and Jim doesn’t bother looking at him as he lies back down. Tentatively, like the bed might explode. It’s not like he’s going to go anywhere, and they both know it.

‘What happened to the other guy?’

‘Nothing, yet. But he’s in the Garda, so it will.’

Jim has the tapes. Whelan proved the archetype of someone who couldn’t get his head around the thought of getting caught. Not arrogance, not thinking he was above the law – simply swept away by the belief that ‘Jimmy’ wanted what he was given, that he deserved it, that if he was confronted he’d be able to say, ‘I was teaching him a lesson,’ and others would nod, and see the logic. It was probably helped by the way Jimmy kept turning up and breaking things, wearing the shortest shorts he could find. The way it stopped hurting, and he became an enthusiastic participant. The way he quickly learned to angle himself a certain way to encourage a new ‘lesson’, a new position, a new act he’d read about in a highly illegal, stolen pamphlet. Whelan was the epitome of delusional. Christ, Jimmy had turned up in school uniform one day. In August, in a country he didn’t even go to school in. And Whelan was so mad with lust and being able to fulfil desires he’d been suppressing for years, he didn’t even question it. He took full advantage, and told himself he was doing the kid a favour.

Jimmy took full advantage too. When someone’s that predictable and blind, it had been easy to put a camera in the right place, ready for the right time. Whelan’s so useful, and has so much to lose.

‘I’d feel sorry for him if he weren’t a sick fuck. How old were you?’

‘Twelve. And you’re one to talk.’

Peter gives a light half-shrug. ‘You’re not a kid. You said so yourself.’

So delusional. So desperate to be free of blame, and guilt. Jim grins in the dark. Hilarious.

 

*

 

‘So, what now?’

Jim turns a page of the newspaper. It’s still screaming about the Book of Kells. Peter puts a plate of toast covered with raspberry jam down in front of him.

‘You go and tell Declan to stay off your patch. Tell him you’ll continue to distribute to him and his dealers, and you’ll give him a cheaper rate on two conditions. One, that he doesn’t give you any trouble over the territory. And two, that he lets you know if any of the other distributors are making noises about moving in on what Frank left behind.’

‘You want me to use _Declan McBride_ as a grass on the others? He wants to be the big man in town, Jim. He’ll never agree to that.’

‘Mm. Until he loses his lieutenants. He’ll say no, you’ll kill them, he’ll be left without muscle he trusts to back him up. So he’ll agree, for the time being.’

‘And spend all his time plotting to get me back.’

‘Of course. But that won’t be an issue.’

‘No?’

‘When you’ve consolidated power, you’ll kill him too. He’s your biggest rival. You just need to keep him under control until you’ve settled into Frank’s place – so you use him while you’re getting comfortable, and then use him again to show everyone you’re not to be messed with. Simple.’

‘When you say it like that. The actual groundwork won’t be.’

He shrugs, not looking up from his paper. ‘Not my problem. I’m not doing it. But you didn’t think you could take over without spilling _any_ blood, did you? That’s not realistic – and it’s not like you’re afraid of it.’

He can feel the gaze on him. It’s Peter’s calculating look, where he’s trying to work out how much Jim knows about him. By rights, he shouldn’t know anything, but Jim did just give him a massive clue. Whelan, being a copper. Whelan having access to information, and Jim having access to him. Not that a low-ranking Guard would be able to get his hands on much of importance, but it’s enough to allow a niggle of doubt. Enough to push his limits of certainty.

‘I might have to call some old friends.’

‘From your army days?’ A tiny smile. ‘That’s probably a good idea.’ He turns the page of the newspaper. ‘We could use some decent muscle around the place.’

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1989._

 

The bags are packed, ready to be loaded into the car in the morning. England-bound. School starts on Monday. Jim stares at the ceiling of his room, listening to Davy’s even breathing in the bunk below him, and the rhythmic rustling of Stevie masturbating in the room next door.

Everyone is so driven by sex. He can see the physical appeal now. It feels good. It feels powerful, though nothing like the all-consuming knowledge of his superiority when he looked down on Carl’s pale-and-blue corpse. He can see the _use_ of it, which is the important thing. It’s a box ticked on his list of curiosities, though he knows there’s a whole lot more to learn on the subject. Girls, for a start. They’re an as-yet untouched area of research.

But in the meantime, something more interesting. Jimmy leaves sex aside, and puts his hands behind his head. Someone noticed what he did with Carl. Someone tried to get the police involved. It is, to this date, the one time he can remember feeling proper fear – the flash of it when he considered the chance there would be a knock on the door, and it’d be the police coming for him.

It had only lasted a second a two. Logically, he knows there’s no evidence, as long as no one finds the trainers. And they won’t, so he’s fine. The fear died as quickly as it came, but it left something far more exciting in its wake. Someone was clever enough to _see_.

And if someone was clever enough to see, it means there’s a boy out there with a mind that knows how to work. A boy who’s smart. A boy like _him_.

Jim has never considered himself lonely. What use does he have for people, when they’re so dumb it hurts to be around them? But now there’s the promise of _someone_ , and his mouth physically waters at the prospect. A boy like him, with a name no one could forget. William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

For once in his life, Jim is actively looking forward to being somewhere. Not Sussex, not England. Just wherever that boy is. That’s where he has to be. Nothing else matters but that.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Free Animal – Foreign Air
> 
> Playlist [here](%E2%80%9D).


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

 

 

_Acting on your best behaviour_

_Turn your back on mother nature_

_Everybody wants to rule the world_

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

The meeting’s been going on for an hour, but there were about two hours of drinking and gossiping before that, random shouting and laughter, just like any other group of men in the pub. Jim drifts between them all, listening politely without being shy, speaking when spoken to and only adding a few unsolicited words of his own. It’s important he doesn’t seem scared, or withdrawn, or intimidated, but he can’t look cocky either. He wants them to like him enough to speak in front of him and consider him worthy of the possibility of trust. If he’s a wanker or looks terrified by a roomful of strangers, they’ll dismiss him as useless. Particularly because of how young he looks. Most of them are already struggling to believe he’s eighteen. Some wouldn’t believe he was sixteen if he told them. It’s the only time in his life so far where he’s considered it’d be useful to be taller.

But the random mingling had pulled together eventually, and everyone sat around a table. There’s only ten of them, so it hadn’t taken much to turn the focus to shop talk – and now Fergus’ attention has shifted and he’s muttering to a man that _screams_ ‘IRA’, from his rough jeans and leather bomber jacket, to his big moustache and a look on his face that says he wants to brain every last bastard he looks at with whatever’s closest to hand.

‘That’s Jordan Montgomery.’ Jack sets a fresh pint down in front of him. When he sips his own, he leaves a thick white moustache behind. ‘He’s the man.’

‘The man?’ Jim nods thanks for the pint, even though he paid for it, and notes that Jack makes no effort to return his change.

‘The big man between us and them down in South Armagh. Fergus hates his fuckin’ guts, but we need him.’

‘For what?’

‘Christ, you are new. Never mind, you’ll learn.’

Jack sprawls in the seat next to him. He’s turned his baseball cap backwards, and Jim is itching to snatch it off his head and set it on fire. Fergus and Montgomery are only eight feet away though, side by side. They’d been discussing a feud between two families in Belfast, and Jim doesn’t know who they are or why it’s important they stop fighting – though he can guess – but everyone’s taking the time to talk amongst themselves and there’s nothing useful to be learned. He picks his pint up and has a mouthful to show willing, though it’s an effort to keep from fidgeting. There’s too much stupid in this room.

‘What’re you here for, then?’

Jack shoves his arm as he asks. Jim does not know whether it’s because he’s high – the kid has obviously got some kind of amphetamine in his system – or it’s the drugs mixed with alcohol, or he’s just naturally oblivious to personal space.

‘A job,’ he says, and Jack pulls a _duh_ face that makes him look about twelve. He must be twenty or thereabouts, but he’s pasty and covered in spots, with the stretched look of someone strung out most of the time.

‘I didn’t think you was here for fun, wee man. Not that it isn’t, right? Fuckin’ grand when it all kicks off. I mean, what’s your point? Fergus doesn’t take passengers, not for summin’ like this.’

Jim shrugs. ‘My cousin put me in touch.’ He hates using this accent. It’s easy – he has family from the North – but it makes him sound like an idiot. It’s so _common_. ‘Why, what’re you here for?’

‘Cars. I’m a driver.’

‘Fergus an’ his pals can’t drive?’

‘Not the way I can.’

A cocky twenty-year-old from Belfast is hardly something new, but Jack must have something about him. Fergus Houlihan is not known for suffering fools, and that’d be obvious even if Jim didn’t already know it was true.

‘Youse boys shut up down there!’

He mutters ‘sorry’ and goes back to sipping his lager, Jack shifting in the chair beside him.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

_Wednesday._

 

If Jim closes his eyes and lifts his hands, holds them palm-down shoulder-width apart, he can feel the atoms of the world start to move his way. A breath of change, a slow swirl in the invisible air held beneath his touch. The rational surface of his brain says _of course things are changing, you’re at that age, you’re starting university_ …and the rest of him, the _real_ him, says _it’s all about to happen_ , and _get rid of them get rid of it get rid of yourself none of this is right_ , and sometimes it says nothing and just screams and screams and screams in abject fury.

He stretches his neck out, and lets his hands drop. Fine, something’s going to happen. But he’s not sure the choice will rest with him, not _really_. Of course he’ll set it up, and of course he has an inkling of which way he’s going to jump. He has since he was twelve. It would almost be funnier not to go that way…but he’s not sure he could bear it. It does, in fact, make him feel sick when he thinks about it.

‘Have you finished up there?’

He opens his eyes, and the better world behind them gives way to the bedroom he’s standing in. ‘Yes,’ he says, and David nods and takes himself off the bottom stair, carrying plastic bags of Stevie’s beer cans and fag butts out to the bins. Every window in the house is open to try and get rid of the smell of smoke, but it’s a futile effort; the air is so thick with heat you could almost walk on it, and it’s never going to shift enough to clear the place out. David brought two fans home from work yesterday, and they’re doing their best but it’s not going to be good enough. He’d thrust some polish and a duster into Jim’s hands too, and Jim had wanted to bash them through his skull for one hot, enraged second…and then he’d got to work, because he spent four years cultivating an image and he’s not throwing it away now. Stevie’s contribution has been to smoke outside today. Jim hates him with a fervour that makes his head hurt, his nerves tired out with fury as they bang against the underside of his skin, throbbing with it all over. He can’t say anything. He dare not open his mouth in case it all bursts out. He cannot _bear_ how much he wishes this weren’t happening.

‘Fuck.’ Running footsteps, and David’s voice rushing up the stairs to him. ‘They’re here.’

They, think Jim, are not fucking royalty. And if they were, he’d care about as much as he does right now. He looks around his pristine bedroom, every surface shining, every dangerous and illegal thing carefully packed under the floorboards, up in the attic, hidden in the bed frame and behind drawers, and one particularly insidious item behind the brickwork he’d carefully taken out and then plastered over two nights ago, when his brothers were asleep. He very, very nearly takes a cigarette out, and lights it. It’d be a lovely ‘fuck you’ to David, who seems to think that if this visit goes well, everything’s going to be alright. Like if Jimmy can behave for the next few days, he’ll always behave. Things won’t go back to how they used to be.

Jim is sure they’re not going back to how they used to be. He’s grown up a lot since he was six, seven, eight, frightening the crap out of everyone and setting traps for Stevie, hoping he’d break his neck in the night. There’d be no hope about it now.

‘Jimmy, are you coming or what?’

He breathes in. Lets it out. Breathes in, and…holds.

Lets it out.

‘Yeah.’

As he walks the landing to the stairs he wonders whether Peter has everything in order. He’s meeting Declan McBride in a few hours, and Jim does not have perfect confidence he took everything in they talked about last night. He adjusts his collar, covering teeth marks; pulls his cuffs down to hide bruised wrists. Things had better go well, because there’s another big job on Friday. One he’ll need to be on the top of his game for. And-

…and first, there’s this. Jim pauses after a couple of steps, and looks down. His mum, with her arms around David’s neck, hugging him like she hasn’t seen him in years even though it’s been about two weeks. Their dad clapping him on the back, and Stevie edging through the door with their suitcase, talking about how the next road over’s going to be closed in a few days and they’ll need to leave extra time to get to the airport on the way home. His dad nodding, _sure, that’s a plan_ , and his mum stroking the back of David’s head, looking at his face with concern because _you should have said you’d been poorly, why didn’t anyone tell me, I’d have come over_ , and David saying there was no need to worry, and yes, he’s been to the doctor, and he’s better now. Stevie trying to get past them in the narrow hallway, saying he’ll put the kettle on – yes mam, they’ve got teabags – and dad complaining about the heat and saying it's worse in England, _but you’ve got fans, good thinking boys, whose idea was that, was it- - ?_

And cutting off, because they all know who usually has the ideas. And his mum’s hands pausing on David’s shoulders, as if just remembering something. The briefest moment of silence, before they all look up, and Jim looks down at them.

(He lives in brief moments of silence, he thinks. A millisecond of clarity, when things stop being loud and he just _knows_. He can’t do this. This is not what life is.)

‘There y’are. C’mon down here.’

She’s holding her arms out to him, like toddlers hold them up to their parents, stretching for reassurance and touch, the security of people who are always supposed to be there. Jim forces his mouth into a smile and walks down into her arms while his skin tries to crawl off his body, air trapped in his throat as he makes sure he doesn’t say _no no NO,_ and shove her as far away as she can go, somewhere he’ll never have to endure this again.

‘My wee maaaaaaan,’ she says, rocking him side to side in her arms. His smile feels like a rictus, eyes closed to endure it. He hasn’t had to put up with it since Christmas, and it feels too soon.

‘Hello, mam.’

And then he has to turn to his dad who, in the split second before they come together, would quite obviously prefer to just shake his hand. The man’s never been a hugger; it only happens because he rarely sees his youngest anymore and he knows his wife expects it. Jim doesn’t mind it so much with his dad because he knows how much he hates it; knows the man recoils at the possibility of queer touching him. And not just that. The same thing that makes his mum overcompensate, and act like she’s missed him the most when they all know, despite Jimmy being the perfect son, he’s the one they’re glad they don’t see very often.

And he remembers, in the milliseconds before his dad pulls him in, the times he heard that belt coming off, the voice yelling _why can’t you just be normal_ , the endless threats of a special school, the hand grabbing his neck and giving him a shake, asking if he knows what happened to Mrs Brown’s dog, and why the girls from down the road refuse to walk past their house but won’t tell anyone why.

None of that matters, is what they tell themselves. Time blunts their memories. They tell themselves it was a phase, and one long passed. The vagaries of genius. And they’re proud of their boy, and never stop bragging about him to their friends, who nod and smile, and are not-so-secretly jealous of them for having someone so exceptional in the family. At least the ones who’ve never met him. The ones who have say all the right impressed things, then hug their own normal, boring, stupid children, and thank the God above they’re nothing like wee Jimmy Moriarty. He knows this. He’s overheard them saying it. He’s overheard his own parents wondering why they couldn’t have had three _normal_ boys.

‘Hello, dad.’

‘Y’alright, son? Been a while. Managed to not burn the house down then.’

‘Not yet.’

They grin at each other. Catch each other’s eyes for barely a second, then look away.

‘Tea?’

‘Yeah, okay.’

The kitchen isn’t big enough for all five of them. Jim walks into the living room. His parents follow, then Stevie, abandoning David to the work. It’s too cramped, but the rest of them don’t seem to notice. They take the sofas, Jim the armchair. He can feel them breathing, and… _being_. Looking at him, expecting him to be what he has been since he was twelve. Nice, and smiling, and friendly. Someone who makes small talk, and listens to them complaining, and asks them about work and their friends.

He thinks of last night, making Peter tie him down. Howling as the bed slammed into the wall, over and over and over. Peter’s getting better at taking him out of his head, mainly by getting rougher. It’s still boring, but not as much. The conversation about Friday night was more interesting, even without any details. Schooling him on the best way to take out McBride’s lieutenants was even better.

‘-rvision this morning, Jimmy?’

He blinks. ‘Pardon?’

‘Look at you, head in the clouds. Your supervision. You said you had one this morning? How’d it go?’

‘Fine.’

His dad tuts, then immediately checks himself. It’s funny how he thinks no one notices his attempts to be polite, like they don’t know what he’s really thinking underneath. ‘Just fine? Didn’t you say you were lookin’ forward to working with that one man?’

‘Doctor Foster. But he’s not supervising me. Our disciplines aren’t the same. I think I’m going to focus on astrophysics, and he’s-‘

They’re glazing already. Jim stops. His fingertips tighten on the side of his leg, then relax. ‘Doesn’t matter. It was okay. I’ve got a month ‘til the next one.’

‘A month?’ Another tut, and this one without an attempt to hide exasperation. ‘It’s a fine life for some.’

‘Well, I think it’s wonderful. Our wee man, working with the best. And not even seventeen yet! Everyone I know is green at me, darlin’. You’re doing us all proud.’

Jim smiles, and feels sick. Stevie looks like he wants to commit murder. His mum’s face is brittle, and his dad just looks wry, unimpressed.

‘Proud,’ he echoes, and nods. ‘You’re a clever lad, Jimmy. You’ll do well for yourself.’

Yes, he thinks. He will, for himself. They all know it, don’t they?

 

*

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

‘Goes like this, see? I get the cars, all of ‘em. Fergus sometimes wants fast ones, but mostly he wants ones that just look like all the others, aye? An’ sometimes vans, ‘cos youse can fit more in them an’ it all be made to look like tools. Covering it all, yeah? So then he comes to me with a list, an’ I go out and get them an’ bring them back to a place, or a couple of places, an’ they wait there ‘til we need ‘em. Simple.’

‘And then you drive on the night. Or day, whichever it is.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You must be good.’

‘Yeah.’ Jack nods like he isn’t replying to the most obvious comment in the world. ‘Yeah. Yeah, very good.’

His eyes have been getting steadily wider, and he’s talking too fast. His mouth works even when he’s not speaking, or drinking, and the pints are going down quicker to combat the dry mouth he’s obviously suffering. Jim is bored, but he can’t pass this opportunity up. Fergus has disappeared with Montgomery, and everyone’s taking the chance to refill their drinks and use the toilet. Or if you’re Jack, stick some more speed up your nose.

‘What’re we doing this time, though? If yer man’s up from South Armagh, I mean – I was told we wouldn’t be comin’ out of Belfast.’

‘We’re not. It’s not about Armagh, it’s just the shooters coming up from there.’

‘Shooters’ could mean guns, or the people using the guns. As far as Jim knows, this is a break-in. Quite a big one, and it was always obvious they’d carry guns because they’re the IRA, that’s what they do. He frowns a little. South Armagh is bandit country, synonymous with snipers, and the most concentrated area of IRA support in Ulster. If Jordan Montgomery is bringing people up to Belfast, it feels like there’s more going on than he was led to believe. And that’s...not good.

‘Why?’ he asks, knowing he’s expected to and knowing Jack won’t have a clue. And he’s right, because there’s a shrug.

‘Dunno.’

He taps his fingers on the table. ‘How many cars have you got to steal?’

That earns him a look. ‘Why?’

A shrug in return. ‘Thought maybe you’d show me. I don’t really know how - I mean, I’ve been wi’ mates who have, but I’ve never done it myself.’

Jack brightens up, then laughs. His mouth opens too wide like he’s not really in control of it, showing his back teeth and braying. Heads turn, and ‘Tommy’ looks a bit embarrassed.

‘Nah, can’t. I mean, yeah! I can. But not for this job, can’t be wastin’ time wi’ amateurs. Got to get seven by the weekend.’

‘Cars, or vans?’

‘Two vans, five cars.’

If people squeeze in, that could fit over thirty. It won’t be that many; there’ll be tools and a device or two, and obviously guns. Still more than he was expecting.

‘Fair enough,’ he says, like it’s no big deal. He picks up his pint and Jack shoves his arm, making him slosh lager over his jeans.

‘Come out fer a drink tonight. I’ll show you then, just for a laugh.’

Tommy grins at once, and Jack responds spontaneously, grinning back like they’re mates.

‘Nice one. Yeah, thanks.’

If Jack was going to reply, it’s cut off by Fergus raising his voice and shutting the room up. Jim puts his drink down and listens, but his mind is elsewhere. He came up here because he wants a practical test. Carl was one thing; it was personal, it didn’t involve anyone else. Whelan is a thing he might never use, though he’ll never throw the tapes away. The thing with the priest is ongoing but that’s also one-on-one, and requires minimal contact. This is something organised, and part of something bigger. He almost didn’t go for it, because other people are awful...but then he did, because at least it’s something _new_. And if he has to play normal for any longer in Dublin, he might just blow someone’s head off.

‘Tommy.’ He catches a roll of paper Fergus tosses down the table. ‘Your blueprints.’

‘Thanks.’

He unrolls them casually, aware of every eye in the room on him. He doesn’t look up when he hears someone mutter, ‘...just a _kid_ , Fergus.’ And Fergus doesn’t lower his voice when he replies, letting it ring out for all present to hear.

‘Lachlan says you can do it. You’re not going to let us down, are ya?’

Tommy shakes his head, eyes scanning the pages. Jim rolls them, where no one can see. ‘Piece of cake, Mr Houlihan. Put me in the right place wi’ my computer, it’ll be no bother.’

And it won’t be. His role is the simplest thing. Disable the internal security network from a remote location and in return, he’ll get a cut of the take, and they’ll teach him how to make bombs. He’s not going to tell them he already knows how to make bombs, and more sophisticated ones than they use. But his knowledge is theoretical. He needs to get his hands on the pieces, and put them together. He needs access to resources, and while he can get that in Dublin, this is far less risky. A fake name, hidden in a faceless group of domestic terrorists, protected by an ideology of silence and secrecy. If any one of this group suspect him of using them, they won’t expose him to the police and the wider world. They’ll just kill him. There’s far more security in being here than walking around Dublin on his own, ordering parts and assembling trigger switches and detonators in his bedroom.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Fergus, with an expression that says he likes Tommy’s confidence. ‘We’ll put you right where you need to be.’

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993_.

_Thursday_.

 

‘Can I be excused, mam? I’ve got to get ready.’

Stevie’s already shoving his chair back, showing deference to their parents by using a napkin to wipe his mouth rather than his sleeve. He tosses it down on his plate as she says, ‘g’on love, but come back down. We’ve something we want to say before you go out.’

Jim’s heart sinks a bit, but he puts his glass of water down and makes to stand up too.

‘And where’d you think you’re going?’

‘I’m going out as well, mam.’

His mum stares. His dad snorts something, and David, very carefully, hides behind his own glass.

‘And where would that be, Jimmy? At sixteen years old, thank you very much.’

He looks from one to the other.

‘I’ve been living on my own for a year. Do you think I just sit in the house all the time?’

‘No. But we’re here now, and we haven’t seen you since Christmas. You could stay in with us - or at least tell us where you’re off to.’

It takes a moment to work words past the swell of fury thickening his throat, and all his considerable control to not say, _I’m off to direct two murders, take over the northside’s drug supply and get my ass fucked by a man with a big dick._

‘Cinema. I helped my pal Denise with her dissertation and she’s taking me out to say thanks.’

The air tangibly relaxes. His dad exhales, and smiles. ‘A girl? That’s alright - why didn’t you say?’

‘Didn’t think, sorry.’

His mum pats his hair down. She’s fucking obsessed with all her boys’ hair, she has to _touch_ all the time and it’s unbearable. ‘C’mon back down when you’re ready.’

He nods. He even smiles. He catches David’s eye as he walks out, and sees him flinch.  It’s enough of a reaction to tell him he needs to rein himself in, but it _burns_ having them here, acting like parents, like they have any right to tell him what to do. He focuses on breathing as he changes his clothes, covering a tight T-shirt with an old checked button-down he doesn’t mind throwing away. It’s probably the straightest thing he owns, and certainly enough to fool them. He uses too much hair gel, because all teenage boys trying to impress girls do, and nicks Stevie’s Lynx deodorant while he’s in the bathroom.

‘Well, don’t you look nice. What’s her name, Denise? I’m sure she’ll like it.’

His mum’s hand comes away shiny with gel. His dad sniffs the air, and nods approval. ‘You’ll knock her dead. C’mon in here and sit down a minute.’

David arrives from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Their dad’s in the armchair, so Jim’s forced to share the sofa. He paints on a polite expression and ignores the conversation about David’s work. He finds himself wondering how Sherlock deals with being around family. And then wishes he hadn’t, because the anger is so strong it hurts, mixed with the jealousy he wishes he could rid himself of. Mycroft might be a stuck-up prick, but he’s a genius. Their mum’s a genius, and their dad can hold his own. At least their dinner conversations would be interesting. Surely? It _must_ be.

His fingers are digging into his leg again. He stretches his neck to the side, and his mum clicks her tongue.

‘What’ve you done there, Jimmy? You keep doing that with your neck. Did you sleep funny?’

(An explosion, wrenching his head to the side. A building falls down, his own hysterical laughter. _You fucked up little bastard…_ )  

‘No. It’s been doing it for months. Just needs stretching.’

‘You should go to the doctor, get it seen to. He’ll refer you on to the hospital if you need it. You remember Doreen who used to live on the estate? She-’

Jim tunes out, and thinks of Belfast. Who could have guessed what all that would lead to? He thinks of Peter, waiting for him to turn up. It doesn’t matter if he’s late, the man’s not going anywhere. Boring, but he’d rather be there than here. Stevie’s appearance is almost welcome for once.

‘What’s this about, mam? Mark’ll be waiting on me.’

He perches on the arm of the sofa by the door. He has too much gel in his hair as well, and stinks of Lynx. It mixes horribly with the stale fag smoke in the room.

‘Aye, well love. It’s just that-’

Jim shares a look with David. It’ll be about the cancer. He readies himself to look a little scared, a touch concerned, worried, but mostly impressed by his mother’s fortitude.

‘-your dad and I are going to move back to Dublin next year.’

The bottom drops out of his stomach.

‘The thing is, your dad’s retiring. He’s not been too well, and we didn’t want to tell you boys because we didn’t want to worry you. And now you’re away to the army, Steven, and you’re off at university, Davy. We thought now would be a good time to come home.’

Jim tries to smile, and can’t. It takes full seconds to realise his mother’s hand is on his shoulder.

‘It doesn’t feel right, leaving Jimmy on his own over here. And we never wanted to live in England forever - or at all, really. We only went because of Da’s job. And you work most of the holidays here anyway, Davy, so we’ll see you when you’re home. Steven, you can drop in when you’re on leave. And Jimmy-’

She’s smoothing the hair over his ear. He can’t _breathe_.

‘-we’ll be here to look after you while you work. Sure, you don’t want to bother yourself with cooking and cleaning at your age, not when you’re studying. You’ll have me here to do that for you.’

Stevie’s smirking, just a little bit. Jim wishes, not for the first time, the fall ten years ago had killed him. It was certainly supposed to.

‘You’re a lucky bastard, Jimmy,’ he says, and pulls a cigarette from his pocket. ‘I wish mam would be around to wash me uniform for the next few years.’

Jim stands up on auto pilot. He vaguely notices his dad in the chair, saying nothing. Maybe it’s in his head, but he doesn’t think so; the vague feeling that his father would prefer it if they lived somewhere else when they came back. Maybe it’s something they’ve argued about back in Sussex. _Be honest, Margaret, do you_ want _to live with that boy again?_ And she’d have said, _he’s our_ son _, Frank_ , in exactly the way she never used to when he was little, and things were worse than they are now.

‘That’ll be nice,’ he hears himself saying, while his insides go up in flames and destroy every higher thought. ‘The place is quiet when I’ve just got it to myself.’

‘There,’ she says fondly, and he has to execute a neat sidestep to avoid her reaching hand, making it seem natural and not a way to avoid her. ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind.’

Maybe she’ll die. Maybe David was right about her cancer coming back.

‘’Course I don’t mind, mam.’ He swallows, smiles, and gives her a quick peck on the cheek to free up his move towards the door. ‘Nothing better than family, you’ve always said so.’

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Lorde - Everybody Wants to Rule the World
> 
> Playlist [here](%E2%80%9D).


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a touch of background reference for one section of this chapter, because I don't expect many people reading to have grown up with the Troubles in Northern Ireland. 
> 
> [The Enniskillen Bombing](http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/events/enniskillen_bombing) turned the international fortunes of the IRA, seen as wilful murder and terrorism rather than an act of legitimate revolution. 
> 
> A 'prod' is a derogatory term for a Protestant. 
> 
> 'H Blocks' is another name for the Maze Prison, where all the political prisoners in Northen Ireland were sent.
> 
> [Sinn Féin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sinn_F%C3%A9in) (pronounced 'Shin Feign') is now a legitimate (I mean...'legitimate', but don't get me started) political party in Northern Ireland. It has always been the political wing of the [Provisional IRA](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Provisional_Irish_Republican_Army). The [SDLP](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Social_Democratic_and_Labour_Party) is also a nationalist political party, but one that doesn't advocate violence. (None of these links need to be read to get the gist of what's going on in part of this story, they're just to give further context if anyone wants it.)
> 
> Gerry Adams was (until February this year) the leader of Sinn Féin. The reference to 'the actor's voices on TV' is simply that, until the mid-90s, the UK government [imposed a ban](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1988%E2%80%9394_British_broadcasting_voice_restrictions) on Republican voices being heard on TV, to try and starve them of publicity. UK TV companies got around it by having actors speak the words, and dubbing them over Adams', and other's, voices. 
> 
> Okay, enough background. If anyone has further questions, feel free to ask. :)

 

 

 

 

 _I'm bigger than my body_  
_I'm colder than this home_  
_I'm meaner than my demons_  
_I'm bigger than these bones_

 

 

 

‘Mother of God. Jim, are you - Christ, what’s the matter?’

He retches again, dry heaving against the side of the house. He can feel Peter’s hands making their way towards his back; he shifts away from them but it’s too late, the proximity makes him heave. He lost dinner way before he got here, there’s nothing left but air and acid, burning him all the way up the middle.

‘Come on in here. Come on - - no, don’t be an idiot, come _here_.’

Arms around him, straightening him gently. They’re careful not to pressure his stomach. It would be cute, if he was ill. He allows himself to be steered, but not to sag against him the way his body would quite like to.

‘You didn’t have to come, I would have paged you. We could have talked on the phone.’

He spits before they cross the threshold, and wriggles his way free when they’re inside. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Peter says, wry. ‘You’re pebble-dashing my paintwork, but you’re well enough to be out. Sit down. You look awful.’

He catches a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. He’s pure white, and clammy. Sweat all over his forehead, his hair damp on his neck. He’d thrown the disgusting shirt away on the bus, so at least he’s dressed well. But Peter’s right, he does look awful. He detours to the kitchen to clean his face off.

‘Just had some bad news. Don’t worry about it.’

Tea towel. Glass of water. It won’t do, he needs a toothbrush. Peter is watching with what looks like concern, and that’s enough to make him want to barf all over again. He turns away from him and rests his face in the cloth, trying to calm himself down. But then he remembers y _ou’ll have me here to do that for you_. And his dad in the house, and he’ll have to be _Jimmy_ again, and even if he tells them he’d rather things stayed as they are, how can he? He’s not legally an adult. If they want to move back here and have him with them, he can’t stop them.

He folds over the sink, and heaves. The bile tastes bad enough to make his body try and reject it too, making him retch without letting his lungs inflate. He can’t breathe; he’s locked out of control, unable to stop Peter stroking his back, murmuring _s’alright, get it up_ , like he’s a _kid_.

He spits, shaking. Manages to say, ‘if you don’t get your hands off me, I’ll slice your fingers off.’ There’s an awful moment where it feels like Peter’s not going to comply, as if the appearance of sickness overrides a command, and he’s going to have to do it. Peter will be less fun and less use without his fingers. But he would do it. Luckily, they lift away, a split-second before he wouldn’t be able to bear them anymore.

‘You need to go to bed.’

‘You’re too dumb to understand. I’m not ill.’ He straightens up, and wets the tea towel to clean sweat off his neck. ‘I need your toothbrush.’

‘I’ve got a spare. It’s new. You can have that.’

But he doesn’t leave until Jim raises his eyebrows, and says, ‘ _now_ , please.’ That makes him roll his eyes, and run along to do as he’s told. Jim takes the opportunity to sit down, and try to straighten out his thoughts. He fails, spectacularly. When Peter returns a minute later, he’s wrapped his arms around his head and is rocking in the chair, trying to make it go away.

‘Jim? C’mon, what’s wrong?’

He ignores him. There’s no way to convey how it feels. No one else would understand. Even the one person who might be capable, wouldn’t. Probably. _Fuck_ this.

‘We need to go out.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I fucking _say so_ , Peter.’

Peter inhales, and lets it out slowly. Jim feels the hate raging through his blood, and every time the cool part of his brain says, _stop it, you can’t let it own you_ , adrenaline rears up and bites, making him want to hit the table until something breaks; the plates, the wood, his hand, it doesn’t matter.

‘If you’re sick-‘

‘I’m. Not. _Sick_.’ It comes out through clenched teeth. There’s a bread knife in sight. It’d only take a second to grab it. ‘Give me the toothbrush.’

Peter tosses it at him. ‘Why do you _need_ it if you’re not sick?’

Three seconds later, Jim’s face hits the counter. Two seconds more, and one hard crack of his fist on the counter, the knife drops from his fingers. Peter’s breath is warm on his ear and he’s solid on his back, no chance of letting him up.

‘Listen to me, you little psycho. There’s only so far you can push me. Threaten all you want, but if you come at me like that again, it’s not me going down.’

He wants to scream. His head is screaming, making his body twitch and his knuckles white, squeezed into the tightest fists he can make. He’d push his fingers through his palms if he could; the nails are halfway there already, filling his nose with the smell of wet metal, blood seeping into the cracks.

‘Calm _down_.’

What Peter doesn’t understand is that he’s trying. That this is the calmest he can be. If he weren’t trying, this would be…worse.

‘Knock me out.’

‘…what?’

‘You fucking peado faggot, knock me _out_ or a knife’ll be the-‘

 

He wakes up in bed, one hand cuffed to the frame and his head screaming for an entirely different reason. He can’t have been out long. He opens his eyes until the pain makes him stop, then relaxes, then makes himself think about why he’s here. His mother’s voice brings the anger back, but it’s manageable now. The headache is enough distraction, along with a pain in his side and a bruise forming on his cheekbone. His hand hurts in a way that suggests the bruise is deep, down on the carpal bones where it’ll take ages to come up, and be a bitch while it does.

Peter sniffs to get his attention. Something cold lands on his head. Frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel.

‘Feel better?’

‘Thanks.’

Peter shrugs, and lights a fag. ‘Going to tell me?’

‘No.’

‘Suit yourself. Are you staying?’

‘For a bit.’

‘Alright, well-‘ he stands up, and stretches. ‘I’m going for a bath. You’re going to stay there and let the magic of cold vegetables fix your head. When I’m done, we’ll talk about McBride.’

He walks out without waiting for a reply. Jim watches his back until it’s gone, then looks up at the ceiling. It hurts, so he closes his eyes and watches the dark instead. Coming here was a mistake. Peter shouldn’t see anything less than perfect control. He’ll get _ideas_ , now.

…though maybe this isn’t the worst thing that could happen. It could be useful, letting the man think there are vulnerabilities he can exploit. So he believes he can win in the end. It’ll give him hope, and that’s funny. But it’ll need to be handled carefully, because this has already made him cocky. He can’t be allowed to get too full of himself. It’ll make him even more stupid, and irrational and, ultimately, useless. Perhaps a little reminder is in order.

Later. Business first. Just as soon as he can clear his head, and not keep veering back to his mother’s words. He can’t afford to let her get to him like that. He needs to keep it all together, because he hasn’t spent four years being someone else just to mess it up now.

 

*

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

Jack is proving surprisingly useful. Jim – Tommy – now knows how to hotwire a car and pick several different types of door and window locks, because one of the easiest ways to nick a car is, apparently, to break into the house and take the keys. But when that’s not possible, say if the van you want is out on the street or in a car park, Tommy has had a couple of nights’ practice at getting into them and starting them up in less than thirty seconds.

And Jack wasn’t lying about his driving. He is _good_. They’d found a Subaru Impreza halfway down Crumlin Road last night, and the kid spent a couple of hours racing them around the estates, doing figure-of-eights through the columns holding up the worst of the high-rise flats. He’d tried to get people to race but it seems like everyone knows Jack, and no one would step up. They’d just screeched around the place until someone called the police, who actually turned up for once.

It got a bit boring after that. The one thing Jim refuses to countenance is getting arrested and having his real name on record, so he convinced Jack that instead of having a laugh by racing the police through Belfast city centre, it’d be a nice ‘fuck you’ to whoever called them by setting fire to the car in the middle of the kid’s play park in the middle of the estate. He’d poured the petrol himself, to make sure everything he had touched would be doused, no evidence of his presence left behind. It had gone up in seconds, they had run, that was that.

The morning after, Jim’s in his borrowed room, wondering if that counts as having fun. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Find someone they like, do things with them, laugh, and are left with a memory that bonds them. Tommy had laughed, and if he were a real person he would probably like Jack. They definitely did things together, and the memory of two nights stealing cars and driving them is presumably something they’ll remember. Conclusion: Tommy has fun with Jack. Jim…wants to get on with the job, and wants a computer to play with, and fucking hates this hangover, and would like to go home except that Dublin is also boring, so he wants to go…anywhere else. But no, he wants this job. He wants so many things, first of which is a paracetemol and a pint of cold water.

There’s a knock on his door. ‘Tommy? Come on, we’re going out for breakfast.’

He stands up, and opens it. Donal is on the other side, smoking, looking useless. ‘I’m ready.’

‘You look like shit. Did youse go out with Jack again?’

‘Aye.’

Donal looks unimpressed. ‘He’s a wee ganch, that one. You shouldn’t trust a word he says.’

‘I don’t. Why’re we going out for breakfast?’ It’ll be so they can talk. ‘Mrs Reid was going to do me a fry up.’

‘So we can talk.’

‘Oh. Right, okay.’

Mrs Reid doesn’t look too sad about not having to do a fry up for her visitor, especially as she’s been paid to look after him for the week so this gives her a free half hour. Tommy smiles at her politely, and she just looks at him in return, her grey dress and pinny melting seamlessly into the ancient wallpaper that looks like it’s been there since the fifties. ‘She’s a sour auld gurn,’ he mutters, and Donal laughs around his cigarette.

‘You’re not wrong, Tommy. But she knows how to keep her trap shut, an’ that’s what we want. Prods took her son, y’know. She hates them more than I do.’

Tommy settles into the car, examining his face in the visor mirror. Definitely looks like shit. ‘D’you really hate them, Donal?’

‘Do you not?’

Shit. Careless. He shrugs, and flips the visor up. ‘Yeah, of course. Me da spent time in the H Blocks because of them. I just haven’t heard you say much about them, that’s all.’

‘What’s to say?’ Donal flicks his fag butt out the window, and starts the car. It stinks of petrol and fumes. Jack nicked a real dud here, but it was probably what was asked for. ‘This country belongs to us, and we need to take it back. If the Prods don’t like it, let ‘em away to England and shut their mouths. Or Scotland would have ‘em. We’ll not stop until it’s ours.’

Jim thinks this is unlikely, and it’s laughable that someone would remain this delusional. The tide turned against the IRA the day of the Enniskillen bomb, and it hasn’t turned back in the six years since. Tommy seems a little hesitant to bring it up, but glances across to say, ‘Isn’t Sinn Fein talking to the SDLP still?’

Donal swears and slams his foot on the accelerator, swinging them violently into the road. ‘Fuckin’ arseholes. _Talking_. Gerry Adams needs to remember where he came from, and who fuckin’ put him there. There’s no good’ll come of it.’

Tommy maintains a look of polite interest as Donal heads off on a rant. Jim listens more carefully, because the politics is easy; anyone can listen to what those actor’s voices are saying on TV and read between the lines. Things are changing in Northern Ireland and they’re not going to change back. It’s one of the reasons he’s here now instead of doing this when he looks older. It’s common knowledge that Libya stopped supplying the IRA after the Enniskillen job, so most of their weapons come from Russia, and their funding comes from America. Jim is less interested in America, it’s too far away to be practical for anything at the moment. But there’s still things to be learned before Ireland gets rolled up in the changing times. The smuggling routes, the players involved, the money they generate through gambling and drugs, and the way they use the church as a ready-made network to pass messages. Even the underground hospital is of interest. He might never use any of this, but it’s nice to have a hobby, isn’t it? Other people take time to learn about things that fire their imagination, why shouldn’t he?

He accepts a fag off Donal, who’s in a red-faced, breathless fury by now, in full flow and thumping the steering wheel with a closed fist. Interesting, what sets people off. ‘- and you’ll never hear Adams admit to _that_ , wee fella, so you’ll not. His man out there in California, drinkin’ all night with the commissioner of the Met. You won’t see _that_ in the paper.’

The IRA drinking with the head of the London police? That _is_ interesting. Jim smokes, a scheme falling into his head unbidden, analysed and checked for faults, then locked in a secure box in his head to be taken out and examined later, when he’s alone. The car swings around a corner and moves behind a residential street, parking in an open lock-up that’s lined with boxes so deep it’s hard to get the door open. Tommy slips out easily but Donal has to work for it, his gut trapping him in one spot for a few breathless and swear-filled moments.

‘Fergus is in there,’ he grunts out eventually, straightening his coat and slamming the door. ‘He wants to make sure you know what you’re about.’

‘No problem.’

Thirty-six hours to go. It’s about time all this started coming together. But even if something happens to make it all go wrong, Jim thinks, as Tommy takes him into the house, this trip has been worthwhile. Plenty of things learned, and plenty more possibilities for the future.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

‘We need to leave,’ he says in a dull tone, when Peter emerges from the bathroom.

‘Do we really?’

Peter smells of warm water and soap, and he looks good with just a towel around his waist. Jim eyes him as he comes closer to the bed, and even more when he kneels on it. The mattress sinks around his feet. Peter’s hair is still wet. It’s curling at his nape, dripping onto his shoulders.

‘Yeah. We do.’

‘I was thinking we could stay a while longer.’

The towel comes off, revealing a cock that’s nearly all the way hard. Jim would roll his eyes if he didn’t have the sense that might go badly for him. Peter’s obviously decided to push it a bit. Jim was expecting this at some point but now is really not a good time.

‘You had to wait until I’m cuffed to the bed to have that idea? I didn’t realise bondage did it for you.’ This is a lie. His shins rub the inside of Peter’s thighs where he kneels. It’s tempting to raise one sharply and see what happens, but the cuffs make that a dangerous proposition. ‘I should have guessed from last night.’

‘You’re not complaining. You came back for more.’

Peter’s inching upwards. Jim watches without moving. This is the most interesting side of him he’s seen, and it’s a shame he’s going to have to quash it before it really takes flight.

‘Alright,’ he says, because it’s the quickest way out of this. ‘But later. We have to go if you’re not going to be late for McBride, and we have to make another stop afterwards. But then we’ll come back here, and I’ll let you tie me up again.’

Peter doesn’t stop inching upwards. He’s got a strange little smile on his face, and if he wasn’t at peak erection a minute ago, he is now. Jim says nothing when his shirt is peeled upwards, revealing a few inches of taut, white skin. He should get some colour, probably.

‘So that’s it, is it?’ he says, quietly. ‘You’ve decided you’re having what you want?’

‘Since when do you not want it? And don’t say it like that. I’m not going to force you.’

‘What you mean is, you’re not going to turn me over and pull my pants down. But I haven’t actually said it’s okay for you to rub one off over my stomach, so maybe consider that before you do what you’re thinking of doing.’

Peter stops short. His eyes flick up to meet Jim’s for the first time, and it seems to bring him back from whatever sordid little fantasy has been playing out since he was in the bath. He sits back on his heels, and swallows.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ he mutters, and Jim has no time to argue it. They both know the truth.

‘Fine. Then uncuff me, and we’ll go.’

He sits up when it’s off, rubbing his wrist. It wasn’t locked tightly but he was already bruised from last night, and it aches. Peter hasn’t moved away. He kneels, erect and clearly hoping Jim can be tempted into doing something about it. Jim looks at it then up at his face, speaking with exaggerated patience.

‘Go and get dressed. We have to go.’

Peter looks down at him. Jim wonders whether he’s supposed to feel something; teachers used to do that, try to glare him into submission, or just make him back down. His parents tried it, Stevie tried, even David once or twice. It’s vaguely puzzling. Like, they seriously expect him to stop, or listen, or do what they want just by looking at him?

Peter breaks his gaze, and climbs off the bed. Jim watches him for a few seconds to make sure he’s really getting dressed. The toothbrush is on the nightstand, so he picks it up and goes to clean the sour taste out of his mouth. When he comes out, Peter has jeans on and is fastening a plain blue shirt.

‘Don’t sulk. You’ll get what you want later. I’ll even play scared, if you like.’

The shirt is snapped down to straighten the front, then shoved roughly into his unfastened jeans. ‘What makes you think I can’t scare you for real, Jim? You’re fuckin’ gobby for a kid your age, and I just thought-‘

‘You _thought?_ That’s new.’

Peter glares at him. Jim holds his hands up, as if acknowledging it’s a bad moment to take the piss. His face is amused but apologetic, just the right amount of sarcasm to make it look like he’s pretending not to be sincere. And behind the expression, Jim watches. There’s nothing amused about the face Peter can’t see.

‘I mean it, Jim. I’ve done stuff that’d make you piss yourself. I deserve more than being ordered around by a brat with big ideas.’ His voices raises, and he jabs his finger towards Jim’s face. ‘You might be clever, but you need me to make this stuff work. And I’m willing to listen but you’ll not treat me like a dog any longer. You hearing me?’

One Jim touches the bump on his head, looking mildly rueful. The other calculates from behind black eyes. ‘You’re shouting loud enough to be heard up in Armagh, Peter-‘ …and isn’t _that_ interesting, that flinch, that split-second of pure surprise… ‘-but fine, fine, I get you. Say it quieter though, I’ve got a headache.’

‘Yeah, well-‘ he mutters, turning away and zipping his jeans up. ‘You asked for it.’

‘I did. And you’re asking for something now. That’s fine. We’ve got a big job to do on Friday and I need your help with it. I’ll tell you about it after you’ve seen to McBride.’

‘Is it a job I’ll be getting any money for? Because so far, helping you out has cost me more than you’ve made me.’

God, the obsession with earning money is so tedious. Jim smiles to cover the annoyance, trying to keep part of his mind back on the mundane to deal with the people who can’t keep up, while the rest races ahead. ‘No immediate pay out – but the long-term rewards will be enough to set up for life. Guaranteed.’

Peter’s gaze is belligerent. The man badly needs to hit something, so it’s probably dangerous to set him loose on McBride tonight. But the meeting has to take place, just to get it out of the way.

‘For life, you reckon?’

‘Guaranteed.’

Peter stares, and stares. Jim looks back with all the patience he can muster, a perfect mask of clear-eyed calm, though his temper is stirring under the façade, a nudge at the rage that is easier to rile than he likes to admit. Anger is fuel; a bedrock of self, a resource that will never run dry. Harnessing it is good. Productive. Leashing it for too long means things can go very wrong, very quickly. He can’t remember the last time it blew; he knows why, and he knows the exact time and date, but the strength of it means actual memories are…not clear. Unacceptable. He stretches his neck out, bullying the tendon into popping. Peter looks away.

‘Fine. Let’s go. I’m getting drunk tonight.’

Jim tuts, and stalks past him to the door, back in the role of pretty little diva. ‘Not if you’re planning on handcuffing me to things, darling. Do that first, then get pissed once you’ve let me go.’

Fingers close on his shoulder, and spin him around. Peter’s face is dark again. ‘If Friday night doesn’t set things up, Jim, we’re finished. I’m not listening to you talking to me like that anymore.’

Jim smiles. It’s warm, reassuring. ‘Guaranteed, Peter. Set up for life.’

Peter searches his eyes with his own. Then nods brusquely, and lets him go. Jim watches his back as they head down the stairs, not bothering to keep the disdain from his face. Set up for life, yes. Set _him_ up for life. Everyone else…well. They’re not his problem, or responsibility.

And he really doesn’t like people who don’t know their place.

 

*

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

‘I thought this was a robbery, Mr Houlihan.’

‘It is. Mostly. It’s just going to send a message as well. Everything we do has to send a message, Tommy. You’ll learn that soon enough.’

Jim knew from the presence of Jordan Montgomery that there was more to this, and the blueprints that had been tossed at him had proved it. There’s no way they’d need to use a building that large if it was just a simple heist. But there was no conclusive way to identify which building it is from the prints he was given, and he didn’t think to try and learn something like that in advance. What would he do, memorise the layout of every building in Belfast? He could, but it’d be a waste of his time. It doesn’t stop him cursing his own lack of omniscience.

‘So…okay. You’re going to intercept the van on the street. You want me to disable the security cameras before you bring it to this new place. But then…’

‘…I want you to get them going again. That’s why you’re here. If I just wanted the cameras down, lad, I could get the fellas to take a crowbar to them before we turn up.’

Fergus has an air of lazy authority about him. Jim quite likes it. The man’s competent within a certain, limited sphere. He’s probably very useful to the IRA, which is a limited sphere in itself. And he’s not going to spill his guts to a kid brought in for his first job, so there’s no point pissing him off by making Tommy ask stupid questions. So he just nods, and briefly turns his palms up.

‘I can do that, no problem.’

Fergus nods too, and puts his feet up on the table. This house is just like the rest on this nondescript terrace, except no one lives here. It’s an office, even if it has a living room and a kitchen, and bedrooms for people to crash in at random times, for random reasons. ‘We’ll need to see that you can do it before the actual job. We’re not having it go wrong.’

‘I don’t mean to be rude, Mr Houlihan,’ Tommy says, tediously polite and respectful, ‘-but if I couldn’t, isn’t it a bit late? If Lachlan wasn’t telling the truth and I turned out to be useless, you’d be up shit creek.’

Fergus makes a _pshaw_ sound over his teeth. A nameless stooge brings him a cup of tea, which he slurps and sets down on the table. ‘We’ve made sure Lachlan knew what he was recommending. And he knows what’d happen if he gave us someone who wasn’t any good. He’s not that stupid.’

‘Okay.’

‘Of course-‘ Fergus smiles without humour, ’you’d better not turn out to be shite, Tommy. Mr Montgomery wouldn’t like it. I wouldn’t like it. Damn sure your Ma wouldn’t like it either, if you get what I’m saying. So don’t fuck it up.’

Tommy has the sense to look nervous, but resolute. He nods. Fergus nods. And Jim considers the reasons they want the cameras back on after their little robbery. What is it they want left on record?

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

Jim hums to himself as he sits in the car. His head is not quite engaged with the current world; enough of it, yes, to see this boring little hour goes alright, but part of it’s in Belfast and part of it’s in Friday. The rest is screaming at the walls of his skull, unable to process the fury at his parents, making his blood roil in his veins, turning his nerves into a living beast that wants to split through his skin and devour them all whole.

He smokes. Peter’s spare gun was taped to the underside of the driver’s seat. It’s now taped to the underside of his thigh, the barrel pointed down his leg because it’d probably be better to blow his knee off than his arse, should the thing go off as he sits here. But he has put the safety on. He’s not got a death wish. Not tonight, anyway. And he hums and hums, Beethoven’s _Ode to Joy_ , listening to it ascend but using it to keep himself on the ground. Something might be coming, but he can’t lose himself in it. He has to have control. He doesn’t want his grip to fail.

A man walks too close to the passenger side window. Jim doesn’t physically move, but everything else draws away from the presence. The car’s parked between old warehouses at the docks; there shouldn’t be other people at this time of night, he doesn’t want _other people_ , he wants-

-he sinks lower in the seat, and puts his fag out. The man isn’t big enough to be the one who was watching before, and he’s moving on anyway. But that doesn’t mean he’s not in the same business. Or he could just be a drug dealer, or someone looking for a dealer…’I need _people_ ,’ Jim mutters to himself, and isn’t that ironic? So no, maybe not people. Lackeys. _Staff._

‘And to thiiiiiiink,’ he sings, quiet and too high, ‘a couple of weeks ago I was going to give all this up for _school.’_

His head feels wrong. His ears are buzzing. His fingers touch the cool metal of the gun, enjoying the weight of it. There are muffled voices which means someone’s shouting. McBride, being told he has to relinquish any hopes of taking over Kavanagh’s ground. Or maybe Peter’s just told him he wants to him to grass on the others. It’s boring, it doesn’t _matter_. Nothing matters. He lights another cigarette. The man has disappeared and it’s too hot, it’s always too fucking hot now. He cracks the window an inch to let the smoke out, then shifts to the driver’s seat, stretching his neck out and tasting the sweat on his top lip. The shouting has stopped so McBride’s listening, or pretending to listen while plotting to kill Peter for this. The death will start very soon and that doesn’t matter either; he does try to remember, sometimes, that people are supposed to care about it. He just…doesn’t. He thinks about McBride being gone, and nothing happens. Or Peter, or Stevie, or his mum. It’s like a car when the battery is dead, and the starter motor can’t work; the key turns, and there’s no response. And when he considers he should feel bad about that – still no response. Why should there be? It’s not like any of them are going to contribute anything to the world, and even if they did, the world itself is nothing but a rock floating through a void.

‘Jim, open the door.’

He leans across to the passenger side, and pulls the knob up. Peter remains by the driver’s window.

‘What’re you doing? You’re not driving.’

He sits, and smokes. You can see stars in Dublin sometimes. Not many, not enough. But some. It’s a cloudy night tonight though, and the sky is a thick grey blanket, locking the heat around the globe. Boiling them all alive.

‘ _Jim_.’

He turns the key, and the engine gutters to life. Peter swears and strides around the car, yanking the other door open.

‘What the fuck are you playing at? You’re not old enough, and I’m not-‘

Jim guns the accelerator, making it rev and drowning out all the unnecessary whinging. Peter swears again, and gets in.

‘What is the _matter_ with you?’

Oh, he thinks, as he pulls away. Quite a lot of things, probably. And his disregard of social niceties is one of the least destructive, so why choose to focus on that? People’s priorities are very strange. They grasp at the minute because anything bigger is too much to hold, and they’re reminded of how little control they have. What must it be like to be so _small?_

‘I’m carrying a gun, Jim.’

‘And you’re not telling me as a threat,’ he says, tonelessly, ‘you’re reminding me not to do anything that’ll get us pulled over, because my lack of licence will be the least of our worries. I get it, Peter. Strangely, I had thought of that.’

‘…it could have been a threat.’

‘Please stop talking.’

Amazingly, he does. Jim drives perfectly, observing all the rules of the road, keeping within the speed limit. The gun pokes into his thigh as he manipulates the accelerator, but not enough to be a bother. They cruise out of town and pass through Ballsbridge, and he can feel Peter wanting to know why he’s not asking what happened with McBride; it comes off him in waves, this urge for him to react in the way other people do. There are social conventions, and he’s not holding up his end by asking the questions everyone else would. He lets it roll off him, disregards it for the nothing it is. He passes several turns that would take him nearer to either one of their houses, and Peter’s silence gets more and more loaded, bursting his seams with the need to speak, and the desire not to be the one to break the silence.

They reach Goatstown. Jim makes it look like he’s going to go straight, and carry on through – but at the last second, he swings the wheel left and they roll through the corner, pointing them in the direction of the bay. Peter’s silence shifts from annoyed and full, to unease and then outright alarm.

‘…where are we going?’

Jim hums. _Ode to Joy_. A full orchestra in his head, cheering him on.

‘Where the fuck are we going?’

Jim refuses to state the obvious. He speeds up a little, and it only takes a few minutes. They park behind a wall, and he deigns to look across to the passenger seat. Peter is staring straight forward. His chest is pulling a little too fast, and the hand Jim can see is thinking about making a fist.

‘Come on,’ he says, and cracks the door open. He lights another cigarette, and when Peter finally gets out, he uses the time he’s in motion to unstick the gun and shove it into his pocket instead.

‘What are we doing here?’

His voice is hollow. It’s annoying. _Ode to Joy_ goes on mute, everything is red, and the words come out in a yell he cannot stop. ‘What do you _think_ we’re doing here? Come _on_.’

He walks. Peter catches up, his face shuttered. Jim tosses his fag and leaps at the top of the wall, only to find a hand on his ankle, stopping him.

‘I won’t go in there with you.’ Peter looks resolute, but there’s plenty of fear. ‘I won’t…you’re not using him to make a point.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m doing, you fucking idiot.’

He drops back to the grass, and whips the gun out of his pocket. Peter doesn’t resist as the muzzle burrows into his neck, and remains passive as Jim walks him until his back hits the bricks. He doesn’t even look surprised. Resigned, more than anything.

‘Sad, isn’t it? School breaks up in a few weeks, but you’ll not see him. Not allowed, are you, Peter? Not after what happened with his mother. I bet he misses his daddy though, right? So, come on. Here’s your chance to catch up.’

‘Jim-‘

‘Don’t. You fucking _dare_. Try and say no.’ They’re eye to eye, just inches apart. ‘Do you want to find out what’ll happen if you do?’

‘You’re not going to shoot me. You need-‘

‘I don’t need him, though.’

Peter’s mouth snaps shut. Even in the dim light from the streetlamp, his skin looks grey. He doesn’t even look like he’s _trying_ to speak, which is probably for the best.

‘You’d love to kill me, wouldn’t you, Peter? Not the bit of you that enjoys fucking me, and not the bit of you that hates everything about your life. But your ego, you’d love to feed that. You’d love to be someone in control of things, wouldn’t you?’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t I?’ He laughs quietly and steps back, though the gun remains buried in Peter’s neck. ‘You’d say that, even after all the evidence to the contrary? You need to be more flexible in your thinking.’

‘You don’t, though.’

‘So you say. Over the wall, please. This is a point best made with a practical demonstration.’

The world is alive with silence while Peter doesn’t move. Then he takes a long breath and turns, and the noise restarts the normal soundtrack of life. He pulls himself over easily, and Jim puts his gun away and follows suit, landing with silent feet on the other side. A narrow road around the perimeter, a hedge, then one of the main buildings. Jim ignores it and walks to their left, in the direction of the oldest building at the side of the quad.

‘Jim…you’ve made your point. Stop this. I’ll do what you say.’

Jim spreads his arms and spins on the spot, face turned up to the night. He thinks of Belfast, standing on the edge of that building, rising into the sky before he was dragged back down. _You fucked up little bastard_ , and teeth red with blood. Unmoored, set loose. Freedom.

‘I know you will. But we’re doing this anyway.’

‘I won’t – if you hurt him, I’ll kill you where you stand. I’ll kill you, Jim, I don’t care, I’ll break your neck-‘

Jim thinks about getting the gun out. But they’re so dull, and so unnecessary. He lets his arms drop but his face still looks upwards, as if willing himself into the stars. ‘Stop. Talking. You’re so boring, Peter, you just…bleat and threaten, and ask stupid questions. Just accept it. We’re here, and you’ll do as I say. Because you know you’ve got things to lose, and you know you can’t actually kill me, and now you know I know it as well. If it were just you and me, you could hurt me all you want. But it’s not.’

He lowers his face. The _Ode to Joy_ has died in him, and the world is just the world again. Other people always did bring him down. Peter is staring. Jim pulls a rueful face, and drags the gun out of his pocket. He spreads his hands, a gesture of _what can you do?_ And then tosses the weapon over. Peter nearly fumbles the catch and stares some more, this time at what he’s holding.

‘I don’t need it. Do you not understand yet? I don’t need a gun to threaten you. If I want to kill your son, I’ll go and do it. I just brought it to speak your language, seeing as you can’t speak mine.’ Jim laughs. And then he’s staring down the barrel of the pistol he’s just given up, and that makes him laugh some more. ‘Oh, very good. Commit murder in the grounds of your boy’s school, fifty yards from his dorm window. That’ll go down well. That’ll help them give him back to you.’

‘Shut up, Jim. Enough.’

‘Enough? I don’t think so.’ He walks forward until the muzzle is over his heart, and leans into it. ‘Do you get it yet? I told you I can get to him, but do you see now that I _will_? You think you can tie me up and touch me without permission, and I’ll just let you? You think I’ll listen to your whining about how I’m just a kid, and you don’t want to be told what to do?’ A pause. ‘I’m asking you a _question_ , Peter.’

‘- I said you’d made your point.’

Jim holds his gaze, unflinching. The gun hurts in his skin. It’ll leave a lovely bruise. Peter’s gaze is steady, black in the night, and his face is resolute. ‘Look at you. It’s written all over you. This is a line you decided years ago would never be crossed. No matter what’s asked of you, you’ll do it if it protects him. Touching, Peter. But extremely stupid.’

‘I’d say you’d understand if you had a kid, but I don’t think you would.’

‘Agreed. One of the few things I’ll never understand. Luckily, I get pretty much everything else. So, come on.’

‘Why? I’ve already agreed. We can go.’

‘Well-‘ Jim laughs and takes a step back. Peter lowers the gun. ‘-that was me being nice. You haven’t seen him up close for a long time. You might as well, since we’re here.’

‘I don’t-‘ Whatever he was going to say, changes. ‘Pardon me for not recognising you being nice.’

‘Pardoned.’

Jim swivels on his heel and walks towards the dorm blocks. For ten strides he’s on his own, and then Peter catches up. It’s more than enough time to process his reactions to that little scene. Peter will not even countenance a threat to his son; he will give in at once, or just kill someone who oversteps the line. It’s like he’s so aware it’s his weak point, he figures he might as well just admit it. It probably helps that he hates himself enough to not care much about the consequences either way.

‘I can’t go in there.’

‘Holding yourself back, or honouring the court’s decision?’

‘Holding myself back.’

‘Then you’re stupid. He’s right there.’

‘He might cause a scene, or be frightened of me. He was younger when - - anyway, he might hate me. He might just yell for them to call the police.’

Jim has done a bit of homework on Eamon Boyd, including spending a bit of time in the school. He’s one hundred percent positive the boy would be overjoyed to see his dad, but that’s not his problem. He just shrugs. ‘Suit yourself. Here, though-‘ he stops by a window, and points up. ‘That’s the closest window. His bed’s just to the left of it, against this wall. Someone wouldn’t even need to go inside to get at him.’

Peter is looking at the wall next to the window. Probably thinking fuzzy thoughts about babies, and the day he was born, and all of that. Jim has no time for it. He waves his hand in front of his face.

‘I hear you, Jim.’

‘I’m not going to have to repeat this lesson, am I?’

‘No.’ His tone is flat. ‘You know why I can’t kill you. And I can’t tell anyone, because you know where he sleeps at night. I’m not that stupid.’

Jim grins, pleased. It’s so nice to watch someone _learn_. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t know what you were doing with Kavanagh?’

‘Why would I assume that? No one else figured it out.’

Jim does not point out the obvious, because even Peter doesn’t need him to this time.  ‘I’ve changed my mind about letting you tie me up, by the way. Or, I mean, I was never going to let you. Just so you know.’

Peter snorts quietly. Which - - fair. Jim is pretty much over shagging him anyway.

‘If I ask you something, will you tell the truth this time?’

‘You already know the truth. And the answer’s yes.’

‘Did you kill Frank Kavanagh?’

Jim rolls his eyes, and the pleased feeling turns to hate. ‘I just _said_ the answer’s yes.’

‘…whatever you did got past the fucking _coroner_. Where’d you learn-?’

Jim is already walking away. This is boring now. ‘You can drive yourself home. Take out McBride’s lieutenants tomorrow. Or tonight, if you feel like it. I’ll ring you in the afternoon – and make sure you’re free on Friday.’

‘How’re you getting home?’

‘Go away, Peter.’

He takes a turn around the school, listening for an engine to start up. There’s a parking lot with a few staff cars in it, and it would be easy to take one. But if Peter’s got anything about him at all, he’ll have parked up down the road and will be waiting for him to drive past. Maybe to follow him to find out where he lives, maybe tempted by some short-lived dream of calling the police and having him pulled over. But he won’t, because he won’t risk his son. He might even remember being told about Whelan a few nights ago, and figure the tame cop would help him out anyway.

Jim crosses the grounds, hops the fence on the other side of the school, cuts over the hockey pitch and starts the walk home. Six miles will give him time to order his mind, and get everything locked down for facing his parents again in the morning. He had thought a bit of distance might help him there, but no. He thinks of it and feels sick again, his blood rising and making his heart thump. No no _no_ , he cannot. Will not.

And if he can’t live with them, he’ll have to explain that he doesn’t want them here. Maybe they’ll listen. If they don’t, the remaining options are limited – but at least the decision will be made. The best way to find out which way you to want to jump is to take one of the options away. If you’re fine with it being gone, you never really wanted it anyway.

Jim stops on the rise of a hill, and turns to face Dublin bay. The edge of Ireland; this tiny, bloodthirsty backwater, the stupidest place for someone like him to be born. And across the water, too far to be seen, an even more bloodthirsty place. Not much larger, but with so many more possibilities. A man could get lost in a place like that, and still be linked to everywhere. A whole new life, waiting. Or anywhere, he thinks, though he knows it’s not true. England still has one thing of interest that nowhere else can boast, even if that thing is useless.

‘What do you think, Sherlock?’ he murmurs, and lights a cigarette. ‘Shall I come to you?’

He raises his face, listening to the air. Too hot, too thick to breathe. His words won’t carry far enough tonight; Sherlock will not be able to hear.

But that’s okay. If this goes down the way it seems like it’s going to, he’ll be able to ask him himself one day. Maybe even sometime soon. It might turn out to be a pipe dream and he’s certainly not going to count on it, but it’s something to get him through the next few days.

Soon, he thinks, and closes his eyes. He can feel the pages turning, this book coming to a close. _Soon_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Halsey - Control
> 
> Playlist [here](%E2%80%9D).


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapters are actually one long chapter, split into three. It might help to think of that as you read this one. The last two will go up together, possibly tomorrow.
> 
> Just a couple more brief background references: [Bloody Friday](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloody_Friday_\(1972\)) was a real thing. And the IRA did used to phone in warnings before their bombs...sometimes. And sometimes they were hoax warnings, and sometimes there were code words and sometimes there weren't. It was basically a crapshoot for the army, and could easily be used as a tool to deflect from other things going on elsewhere. 
> 
> They also did have bombmakers that would go around and teach people how to make bombs in their own homes, and [violence at funerals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1eb_0Yqq8X4) was quite common.

** _Part I_  
**

 

 

_Now the bullets are flyin'_

_Can't tell friend from a foe_

_And we're caught in the crossfire_

_Of the war inside our souls_

 

 

 

The atoms are gathering. When he closes his eyes, the world becomes the quiet _thump…thump…thump_ of his heart. A ticking bomb.

He is dying to explode.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

‘Where’re you off to today, Jimmy? What time did you get home?’

‘Sure, leave him be. He was out with that wee lass.’

‘He’s too young to-‘

… _thump…thump…thump…_

 ‘Library, mam. I told you I’ve got to write stuff up this month.’

‘Oh aye. G’on, then. Do you want Stevie to drive you up to town?’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Well. Bring some soda bread back, there’s some change on the side there. You’ll be here for dinner, won’t you? I’ve got chops in. And-‘ … _thump…thump…thump…_ ‘-Da’s already booked a table for tomorrow night so we can all go out. It’ll be nice.’

Jim smiles with his hand on the door handle, trying not to run towards release. ‘Friday night out, mam? Wouldn’t miss it.’

 

*

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

This meeting is a lot more subdued, and there’s fewer people. It’s held in a house down the Falls Road, and Tommy is squashed into a corner with Jack, which suits him fine. He can see everyone from here without drawing attention - but like last time, things are taking ages to get going. Jordan Montgomery isn’t here yet, and Fergus is brooding about it. Jim is still calculating the odds of every possible reason for their rift, but he doesn’t have enough information to make a decent guess and he hasn’t been able to get away and do any snooping of his own. They watch each other this close to a job, and it doesn’t help that he’s so new.

There’s a nudge at his elbow, and he looks up just as a figure blocks the light from the uncovered bulb. Tall, now he’s standing. Still with a watchful, untrusting expression. Tommy swallows his tea, and says, ‘hello, Colm.’

He gets a moment more of silence. Then, ‘you’re coming to me tomorrow. No drinking tonight.’

Jack deflates beside him. They’d made plans to go out. But Tommy nods, and then seems unsure. ‘Are you the-‘

‘Aye.’

Jim surveys him. Tommy looks at him. Colm looks back. Then he nods, and shambles off. Seeing him upright, a bad limp is clear. Jack shifts on the sofa, and mutters, ‘he gives me the willies, always has. You’re fucked, probably.’

‘Why? Does he not know his stuff?’

‘Oh fuck no, he’s the best. He’s been the go-to fella ‘round here since before I was born. They say he made the jobbies for Bloody Friday, y’know?’

‘What, all of them?’

‘Aye. That’s why they went off.’

Bloody Friday. Twenty bombs detonated within the space of eighty minutes. Most went off in the same half hour. Tommy sips his tea again; Jim watches Colm sit down on the other side of the living room. It was said they mostly targeted infrastructure and the IRA have since claimed they phoned in warnings half an hour before each one went off. But the security services had too much to do, or they ignored them, or got caught up in the hoax calls that came at the same time. A hundred and thirty people were injured. Nine dead. Everyone’s seen the photos of one body getting scraped off the street with a shovel.

He puts his cup down, and tries to look nervous. ‘He’ll be alright.’

‘He’s a fuckin’ bastard, Tommy. Don’t piss him off. But he’s been goin’ around teachin’ people since fuckin’ forever, so pay attention an’ he might not have Fergus take your kneecaps off, aye?’

‘…aye.’

In any other place, that might be a joke. Not here. Jim sighs inside his head, and waits and waits for something interesting to happen. Learning to make the bombs is not going to be an issue, but being too good at it might raise suspicions. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow; Fergus stamps in and raises his voice, and they’re all back to planning their stupid little heist.

The next morning, he’s taken to another house. This one’s on the lower Antrim Road, and Jim doesn’t allow Tommy to look too interested as they head inside. It’s only a little more than four months since the IRA went into a soldier’s house not far from here, and opened up on him with AK-47s. There’s no more security presence than normal, but then, there’s been other attacks since.

‘Don’t worry.’ Donal takes him around the back, and knocks three times on the kitchen door before just walking in. ‘No one’ll bother you in here.’

Tommy looks like he’s trying not to seem relieved. Jim considers whether the place has protection; there’s certainly enough spots on the other side of the road for it to be covered, and this whole area is a historic hotbed of sniper activity. It’s not really important. Given what they’re going to be doing today, there’s plenty of ways he can remove all traces of his presence before he leaves.

‘Hope you listened to me yesterday.’

He nods at Colm, shuffling in on his uneven legs. ‘I didn’t drink.’

‘Mm. G’on, Donal, leave him. We’ll see if he’s got anything about him.’

Tommy smiles. Colm looks a little less gruff than usual, and a lot more switched on to his surroundings. Jim finds himself taking more notice, and he _knew_ there was a reason he’d noticed him that first day in the pub. Colm has the look of a man coming alive, turning into a real person when faced with something he loves and understands. Today just threatened to get a lot more interesting. ‘I’ll try my best,’ he says, Tommy ever eager to please. Colm snorts.

‘Do better than that, or you’ll blow your bollocks off. Just do what I tell you. You might get to keep one of them that way.’

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

He’d woken up to reports of a double murder on the northside. The news was making a big thing of it because two fatal stabbings within an hour of each other usually means gang trouble, and it gives a good excuse to make stories about Dublin’s drug problem, the social inequality, and what are the politicians going to do about it? On his way to the bus, Jim’s main thought is mostly, _stabbing, Peter?_ Less noisy than shooting them, but a hell of a lot more personal. He must have been particularly stressed after last night’s outing.

He gets off the bus two streets from Trinity’s main entrance, and walks to the computer science department by way of the Old Library. There’s still Guards all over it, making sure the public don’t get near the crime scene. There’s even a journalist or two, no doubt filming segments that ask _what’s being done to return the Book of Kells? Why hasn’t it been found yet?_ The fact it hasn’t turned up is a pressure that isn’t going away. Every report has someone sounding more stressed, more quietly panicked. Jim turns away before he gets anywhere close, and makes sure to only look casually at the cordoned off area. He should probably be keeping the book in a temperature-controlled unit, but eh. Let the thing turn to dust, who cares?

He picks up a few textbooks from the library. In the computer lab, he sets up at his favoured machine in the corner. The books make a nice stack to hide behind, even more so when he puts a couple of cans of Coke on top of them. And then it’s simply a case of getting down to it; not his thesis, which is going to have to wait a while, but all the bits that can be taken care of via computer. Security information, personal details, partial medical records and then data deletion. The most pertinent parts of any crime.

‘This is early for you.’

‘Hello, Denise.’

She swings her bag down next to her regular computer, and starts pulling folders out of it. ‘Where’ve you been? You used to be in here every day.’

He glances up from behind his fortress, and grins. ‘Miss me?’

‘I didn’t say that. Just curious.’

He shrugs, and types. ‘Finished my first supervisions. Now I’ve got to do some work, like you lot.’

‘How _awful_ for you.’

‘Yeah, well. It’s not exactly work but I’ll try not to make you look bad.’

She sends him a look that is apparently supposed to be withering. He grins again, with added obnoxious teeth. She’d obviously rather not smile at it, but there, she does anyway. ‘Wanker. You going to be in all day?’

‘Nah, just a couple of hours. I’m glad you’re here though. I felt bad about not looking over your dissertation. I can’t do it now because of all this stuff, but I’ll read it over on Monday, if you like?’

Her eyebrows raise, and she pops her gum. She’s gone for a red motif with her lipstick and earrings today, complete with a hair bow to match. ‘You realise I’m still not going out with you?’

‘You realise I’m still going to ask after we’re done?’

‘Obviously-’

Bitch.

‘-but as long as you don’t mind rejection - okay. You can read it.’

Lucky _me_ , he thinks, but smiles anyway. Life has to go on, after all. That’s all it does. He’ll make sure everyone sees him going along with it.

 

*

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

The dining room has only one window, and it’s covered with thick curtains. There’s been no air all day, and the only light comes from the bare bulb hanging overhead. Everything is bright; electric glare, chemicals, metal on his fingers and coating the back of his tongue. The outside world is a distant memory, five feet and the span of his mind away; unimportant, messy, irrelevant next to the neat precision of parts coming together. His hands are efficient as he builds, moving quickly but nothing to the speed of his brain. He’s doing as he’s told with one ear and the rest of his mind is attuned only to his imagination, taking what he’s learning and expanding it, because there’s so much _more_ he could do with this equipment and these materials; he could blow up this house, and then the city and then the world, and there is no end to the bright, sparkling, _flaming_ future as he shapes first one bomb, then another, then another, drinking in every gruff word Colm allows out and turning it into something so much bigger. He remembers at some point that he wasn’t going to look like he knew too much, because he doesn’t want to raise questions. All that went out the window hours ago. He can’t help it. He has to know. He has to _do_. He can’t pretend to be normal today.

‘Fuckin’ hell, Tommy.’

He steps back from the table, wiping sweat off his forehead. Colm had stopped acting like he was an inconvenience after the first half hour, and now he’s bordering on amazed. But also weirded out. Jim is not sorry about what’s going to have to happen soon, he’s just glad the old man’s attitude has had the chance to shift in the face of someone superior.

‘Youse reckon you’ve never done this before?’

He shakes his head, dazed. ‘I read some books though. I saw my uncle with one, once.’

Colm has lit a cigarette now they’re done with the flammable part of the operation, and is examining him from under thick grey eyebrows. Jim’s blood is on fire. He wants to build another. He’s going to build another, but he needs some time and he doesn’t need questions and he doesn’t need to be stared at like that.

‘Fergus said you’re a smart one. He’s never normally that right. Don’ mind telling you. Never seen anythin’ like it.’

‘Sorry?’

A snort. ‘I don’t think y’are. Why should you be? You’ve got the knack for it, alright. You stayin’ around after this job, are ya?’

‘Yeah. If they’ll have me.’

Colm is still staring. Smoking, his fingers stained dark yellow from the nicotine, his skin an unhealthy off-white shade. Jim thinks, as he tries to remember that he’s supposed to be Tommy, that it could have been a good thing, in another life. If he could stay for real and become the bombmaker’s apprentice, and take over once he was gone. That’d be a life, wouldn’t it? For someone. Not him.

‘They’ll have you,’ Colm says, and smokes and smokes and smokes. Watching. Tommy shifts from foot to foot, head swimming with the heat trapped in this little brick coffin. There’s air somewhere in the world, surely? He needs to belong to himself again.

Colm stubs his fag out. ‘I’m goin’ for a piss,’ he mutters. ‘You want tea?’

Tommy nods, and Colm limps out of the room. Jim looks down at the bombs he’s made. Takes in the mess of the room once more, and lists all the things he could make from it. His fingers twitch. He _wants_.

And then follows Colm because he might be about to make tea, but Jim bets that’s not all he’s doing. He hovers on the landing until the kettle’s boiling, then moves quietly, waiting halfway down the stairs. He watches Colm come out of the downstairs bog, but instead of going back to the kitchen he heads to the hallway phone. It was inevitable, of course. And maybe he really should have hidden what he knew but really, was it ever going to end any differently?

The phone is the old-fashioned kind with the circle dial. He waits for the first three numbers to make sure it is Fergus he’s calling, then steps up behind with a syringe in his hand. His head is singing quietly, _I’ve got you….under my skin_ …which might be funny if he could think in the smaller details. There’s sweat on his top lip as the body falls. He’s aware of his undershirt, damp in the small of his back. He can smell chlorine. The air is thick with it, and they haven’t even been using it today.

‘You were stupid,’ he tells the hunk of meat on the floor in front of him. ‘And it’s _rude_ to stare at people.’

He cocks his head at Colm as if waiting for a reply. It takes a few seconds to fully register that there’s not going to be one, and a feeling of mild surprise when it does. He looks at the syringe in his hand, then around the hall. Then at the body. Then…nothing, for a minute, processing nothing because there’s nothing to process. This is where he’s supposed to feel stuff. Other stuff. Not this satisfaction, and a vague desire to laugh. He’d go as far as to say _giddy_ , but that might just be the chemicals.

But no, he must focus. Deep breath. Colm fell when he came out of the toilet, that’s all. Natural causes. And Tommy will be suitably distressed when he calls Donal in half an hour. Jim’s just got a few things to do first.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

The day passes like a dream. He’s felt this only once before, and it was the day he killed Carl. A certain level of _am I really going to do this?_ mixed with the absolute certainty of _yes_.

He knows he could still change his mind. Logically, there are other options. None as good, but they do exist. He is forced to the conclusion that, on some level he’s never properly examined before, he’s doing this because he _wants_ to – and as soon as he admits it to himself, all questioning dies away. He’s doing this. It makes sense. And it’s what he wants.

But he will allow for one last possibility of changing the plan, because keeping everything static is not just a recipe for failure, it’s stupid. He’s ninety percent sure of what the outcome will be, but ten percent is not a margin he’s willing to play with. He can override his own feelings on the matter for the sake of satisfying the one remaining question – even when he’s proved right, at least he’ll go into this knowing he covered every base. He will not cut corners.

After the computer lab, there’s a few other stops to make. A bigger one tonight, but that’ll be easy. And then, home. He paints himself in the beige hues of normality, draws on a smile, and opens the door onto the smell of dinner cooking and David setting plates out in the dining room.

‘Hiya, mam.’

‘Hello, pet. This’ll be five minutes. Go and wash your hands.’

He sticks his head into the living room to nod at his dad, ignores Stevie, and sits on the bottom stair to take his shoes off. _Go and wash your hands_. It says something about all the years spent playing Jimmy that he can hear that, and not want to put his head through a wall. Reason enough to put an end to all this. _Jimmy_ can never be allowed to become the norm.

He goes upstairs to the bathroom, and to put his backpack in his room. He checks under the bed to make sure Stevie hasn’t been snooping around for gay porn to show their dad, and found the chisel taped to the inner leg. It’s still there. On an afterthought, he opens his wardrobe to check the Book of Kells is still locked in its box. It’s on the bottom shelf, with a plastic bag on top of it that holds a securely wrapped package. He’ll find a proper place for Carl’s trainers in a couple of days. They’re a souvenir he has no need to keep close.

‘Jimmy, I’m dishing up!’

He closes the wardrobe. The mirror on the outside of it shows him a boy that looks like any other boy. Thick dark hair that will need a trim soon. Brown eyes that look soft just now. A little rounded in the cheeks; Stevie’s used to be like that until he got close to eighteen, and they sharpened. David’s too. He assumes it’ll happen to him as well. He tilts his head at himself. Jimmy looks benign. Cute. Normal.

He thinks about tomorrow night. His eyelids lower a fraction, and his eyes focus; from soft to razor sharp in less than a blink. His smile takes on edges, and a minute shift in muscles moves the skin into the expression of a predator, something the opposite of soft, something that just doesn’t _care_. Jim. It’s the only face he recognises, and the only one that lets him relax inside because it’s the only one that’s not fake.

‘Jimmy!’

He closes his eyes, and inhales. When he opens them, the mask is back in place. _Soon_ , he thinks, and goes downstairs to his family.

They ask him what he’s done today. He talks about astrophysics until Stevie throws a hunk of bread at him. That only takes two minutes and Stevie earns a tongue-lashing from their mother, so no big deal. And they don’t ask him anything else afterwards, so he’s left alone until pudding when he, for once, is the one to instigate a conversation.

‘Are you really sure about moving back here, mam?’

All eyes turn his way. He spoons up some custard, unconcerned.

‘Of course we’re sure. Why?’

‘And you’re definitely going to live here?’

His parents exchange glances. It’s his dad that speaks, in a tone too even to be natural. ‘And where else would we live?’

He shrugs. ‘I just thought you might like somewhere smaller. And this house doesn’t belong to you.’

The air turns cold, so he hastens to add, ‘I don’t mean you _can’t_ live here. I just mean that once I’m eighteen, won’t we be selling it? You’d have to move again.’

The air fails to warm. Stevie’s chewing on trifle with a look of disgust on his face, and David’s staring at him like he’s suggested they put their parents down because they’ve become too old, or something.

‘And why-‘ his mother says, ‘-would you be selling it?’

Jimmy glances at his brothers. ‘It was left to us. Won’t we want the money?’

David’s expression doesn’t change. Stevie looks like this has never occurred to him, and now that it has, is intrigued by the idea. But it clears a few seconds later when he remembers that getting the money would mean evicting their parents. It makes him scowl, and he spits out, ‘you’re a little gobshite, Jimmy. If they want to live here, they can live here.’

He looks at his dad. The man’s telegraphing a very real feeling of _I knew I hated you_ , which is fine because it’s mutual. But all he says is, ‘you’ll still be studying at eighteen, Jimmy. Can you hold off on selling it from under us until you’ve got your doctorate, and started a job? We can move to a flat once you’ve moved on, if that’s what the three of you want.’

‘It’s not what I want.’ David’s voice is cold. ‘If Jimmy moves out for a job, you can still live here. It has to be all of us that wants to sell it.’

‘It doesn’t,’ he tells them, laughing inside. And considers that he’s really not doing a good job of trying to convince them not to come, which only proves further his desire to carry on with his plan. ‘If I want to sell my share, you can’t stop me. You can buy me out, but you can’t make me keep it.’

The air goes from cold to glacial. Jim puts more trifle into his mouth. His mother clears her throat.

‘That’s true enough. But you’re not even seventeen yet, so why don’t we talk about this in a year, when it’s relevant?’

‘All right.’ He throws the comment away like it’s nothing. ‘I’m not saying that’s what I want. I’m just – I’ve been living on my own. It feels weird to have people back in the house.’

‘Tough!’ Stevie is, as ever, on the verge of losing his temper. Jim thinks the only flaw in his plan is not allowing for the immediate possibility of dealing with him, but that could always be changed. ‘Most kids your age live with their parents. Why’d you have to be different? If mam and dad want to come here, they can. You’ll put up with it.’

His words settle over the table. Jim notes that David does not refute the statement, and his parents don’t rebuke him for yelling. They’re all staring at him again. He looks at each face in turn; his family, these strangers. And holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat.

‘Fine. Whatever.’

They go back to their pudding in silence. Stevie and their dad attack their trifle with anger. David looks morose as he picks at his. Their mother eats efficiently, each precise movement telegraphing her displeasure. He’s hurt her feelings.

He drags cream off his spoon with the flat of his tongue. All he can think is _good._

 

*

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

‘Here.’

He takes the offered tea in shaking hands. He can smell the sugar in it from here. He hates sweet tea, but sips it because Fergus is standing over him, looking concerned. ‘Thanks.’

‘Can you come upstairs, Tommy?’

He nods, relieved. There’s a cluster of men around the body, but he can still see Colm’s feet. Weirdly, some of the shakiness is genuine. Adrenaline, he assumes, but still feels better when they’re on the first floor and away from the muttering. Fergus gestures him into the bedroom where they spent the day working, and Donal closes the door behind them.

‘What happened?’

‘I dunno. We were up here all day, and he seemed alright. From what I could tell. I don’t really know him.’

‘He didn’t look sick?’

‘No, he looked like - - I dunno. Like he has the other times I’ve seen him.’

‘Yeah, but he didn’t look in pain, or anything?’

‘No.’

Fergus and Donal glance at each other. Tommy looks nervous, but Jim is not. The air is one of sorrow, not suspicion. They probably would have known the man their whole lives. He shifts from foot to foot, then says, ‘you think he had a heart attack, or something?’

‘Probably.’ Fergus looks around as if seeing the room for the first time. His gaze fall on the bombs, and he frowns. ‘This is all from today?’

Tommy shakes his head, and points. ‘That one, and that one. The others he’d already done. He was going to take them apart for me this evening, and show me how to put them together.’

The frown disappears, replaced with a sad smile. ‘Ah, that’s Colm. He’d spend every minute playing with these things if he could. Did you learn something, though?’

‘Yeah, a bit. I’d need more time to do it myself though. I mean, I didn’t-‘

Fergus is waving it off. ‘Not now, Tommy. There’ll be someone up from Armagh eventually, we’ll sort you out then. No one expected you to pick up much today.’

Idiots.

‘So what happened, then?’ Donal takes a cigarette out and fiddles with it, glancing at any materials he thinks might be flammable. ‘He didn’t look like his chest was bothering him? His arm?’

‘No. He just went down for a piss, and to make tea. I heard a big thump, and came out to look. I tried to wake him up, but he - - there wasn’t any breathing, and I couldn’t feel his heartbeat. That’s why I phoned you, Mr Houlihan, not an ambulance. It didn’t look like it’d do any good, and-‘

He breaks off, and Fergus is already nodding. ‘No, youse did the right thing. We can’t have the coppers in here, and they have to come with an ambulance.’

‘What’ll happen to him? Do we clear the house, or-‘

‘No. We’ll take him out. It’ll have to wait until tonight. Don’t you worry about it, we’ll take you home first.’

‘Did he live on his own?’

‘Aye.’

So they’ll just put him back in his house, and then someone’ll go around in the morning. When they get no reply, they’ll spread concern. He’ll be found eventually, just another old man who collapsed at home with no one to raise the alarm. Perfect.

Tommy rubs at his arm, then seems to remember his tea and drinks some of it. Fergus is touching one of the bombs.

‘His work was always the best.’

Donal nods, sombre. ‘Aye. T’was.’

So Tommy nods too, until Jim prompts him to ask, ‘is the job still going ahead?’

It seems to snap them out of it a bit. Fergus touches his forehead, and sighs. ‘It is. Colm wouldn’t have been there anyway, he never went into the field anymore. We’ll get that out of the way, then bury him with a good send off. Fuckin’ Prods’ll be out in force for this one. We’ll need to be armed at the graveside.’

Yeah, but-‘ Donal sounds amused, and Fergus grins when he realises what he’s about to say, ‘-the auld bastard wouldn’t want it any other way.’

‘True enough. What about you though, Tommy? You ready?’

‘I’m ready.’

‘Sure now? Computers an’ stuff’s for you young fellas. You’re not gonna let us down now?’

He shakes his head, a young fella trying to prep himself for being the future of the IRA. One of them that’ll drag the dinosaurs from the analogue world into digital. ‘It’ll be fine. No problem.’

‘Good man.’ Fergus claps him on the shoulder hard enough to hurt, and Donal looks at him with approval. Tommy’s part of something now; a kid who didn’t panic in the face of death.

Back in his borrowed room, Jim lets Tommy disappear and lies down on the bed. He’s going out with Jack soon, both to give the impression of taking his mind off things, and because there’s a job he has to do while Jack does _his_ job, picking up the one remaining van they need. But this is almost too easy. The devices he took from the bedroom are hidden, waiting for him to pick up along with the components for another little project he’s always wanted to try. He’ll stop by the house when it’s convenient. They’re going to come in very handy.

As for Colm – still nothing. Jim is fascinated by his own lack of remorse. It was less noticeable after Carl, maybe because he was so much younger, and was in a different mindset. Carl was an issue that just had to be removed. He was a thorn deep in his flesh with the taunting, and laughing, and _Queer! Queer! Queer!_ The idea that he was better, just because he could _swim_ , of all things. This is different, though Colm was still just another obstacle. He was about to fill Fergus in on Tommy’s unnatural talent. He had witnessed the unnatural talent. Jim’s not having that broadcast.

‘I’m a murderer,’ he whispers, out loud.

He said that after Carl too. Speaking it doesn’t make it any more real, or any less true, and it doesn’t make him feel anything about it either way. He’s a murderer. It’s just a fact, proved by action and consequence, but it’s a fact that means he’s free. Because if you can do that, if you can take a human life and not care -  - you can do anything.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

He chisels silently at the wall. The putty from a couple of days ago is not fully dry, so it’s an easy job. He just has to be silent, because the house is sleeping and all the lights are out. His dad is snoring, David is restless. The air hums with heat and moisture. Summer refuses to break, determined to roast them all. Jim watches putty and dust curl out from the end of the chisel’s steel tip, collecting on the carpet by the skirting board. He takes his time. Even with these short nights, there’s no rush. Tonight’s the night before the big show, and this is one that doesn’t get a dress rehearsal. One shot; all or nothing. If this goes to hell, he could be in jail this time tomorrow.

But he doesn’t think that’s going to happen. He thinks of Belfast, just a few short months ago. Maybe that was the dress rehearsal, in its way. The last of the putty comes free, and he starts easing bricks out and stacking them on the carpet. He removed the insulation from this corner almost a year ago; a perfect spot for hiding what should never be found. The Book of Kells was there for a few days. Now…he smiles at the first sight of wires, the Semtex stolen from the IRA. The jacket he fitted it all to the day he read Peter’s file in the police station.

He touches the edge of it carefully. It’s not elegant, but it is clever. It is perfect for what he wants.

He is a murderer, after all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP).
> 
> Song: The Rigs - Fault Line


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally lied about the last two chapters going up together, but only because I hate the last one and want to rework it. 
> 
> Notes on [Shankill Road and The Falls Road](https://theculturetrip.com/europe/united-kingdom/northern-ireland/articles/how-did-the-shankill-road-become-northern-irelands-most-notorious-street/); the first is Loyalist (Protestant), the second is Republican (Catholic). They run side by side in West Belfast, separated by a [Peace Wall.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peace_lines) This is only one of the walls in Belfast; the city is still riddled with them, though they're now pretty much decorative and there are plans to remove them all over the next few years. 
> 
> Those two roads being close together...caused problems. Many many many problems, and the scenario described below is something that could happen on any given day, for any given reason. This time just...had a helping hand.

 

 

_The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound_

_I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground_

 

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

The robbery is simplicity itself in design. Direct an armoured van into the underground garage of Belfast’s City Hall, just to prove they can get into it (on the weekend, when it’s closed). Montgomery’s men will have already gone into the security office, and controlled the few wandering guards upstairs. Blow the van open, steal everything. And then Jim has to bring the security cameras back up, and…well, that’s the question. What then?

It can only be a murder, and one they want evidence of. If it’s going to show the killing, then it’s not aimed at TV because it’ll never get airtime. The only people who’ll see it are the police, the politicians, and the army. Oh, there’ll be leaks, but it’s not meant for public consumption. And does it really matter? Jim has no intention of actually joining the IRA – but still. He’s curious.

He waits in the office building he’s been taken to, watching the terrible CCTV footage redirected to his screen and waiting for his cue. When it comes, he does as he’s told. He cuts the video feed to the security hub. He also – not as he’s told – picks up the telephone and calls in a twenty-minute warning for a bomb planted halfway down the Falls Road.

Five minutes later, watching Fergus’ men trying to blast their way into the armoured truck, he picks up the phone again. A fifteen-minute warning for a bomb planted halfway down Shankill Road, this time with the added authenticity of a genuine IRA code word.

He hangs up, and examines the scene. The drivers are gagged and tied up in the corner, as are the gate guards they took hostage on the way in. It’s like watching a TV show on a set with bad reception. He gets bored after a minute and moves to stand at the window. The office provides a decent view over the city, tall enough to see out but not too large to control. It’s closed on the weekend, but it has a full computer network. Fergus had taken care of the security man; either took him out, or – more likely – he’s a sympathiser on the payroll. He’ll be tied up somewhere downstairs to make it look like he had nothing to do with this. Bad luck for him.

The phone rings. He picks it up, one eye on the screen, the other out on the street. Donal wheezes in his ear, ‘still awake, Tommy?’

‘Aye. I’m watching.’

‘Won’t be long. Some shit’s gone down by Shankill. I’m on my way to you. We’ll need to be gone quick. The army’s out.’

He hangs up. Jim leans against the wall by the window. The army have screamed up to the entrance to the Falls Road and, right next to it, Shankill. One Loyalist, one Republican, divided by a Peace Wall – and whoever named it that needs an award for irony. Jim lights a cigarette, watching soldiers fan out down both streets. Some check the dozens of cars, but most are banging on doors. He can’t hear what they’re yelling, but they’re obviously telling people to get out. Instant evacuation, leave everything as it is, no time no _time_ , just get up the road.

There is some attempt to keep people separate as they pour up their respective territories. But there’s just too many of them, and there’s only ever one way this was going to turn out. Women and old people are grabbing children even before they’re at the end of each road, pulling them to one side. Men, teenagers, and some women without kids, head straight on. Some of the Republicans are already holding bricks; some of the lads have brought bottles out of the houses with them. Knowing this would happen, some of the Loyalists have done the same. It takes less than three minutes before the first missile is hurled at an army van. As soon as one lets fly, a Loyalist lets one go in return. The soldiers try to keep them apart with their riot shields, but it just means they’re stuck in the middle. Jim can’t hear the shouting from this distance, but he can hear the thump of brick and stone on the shields. The petrol bombs will start any minute, which means rubber bullets, which means the whole area’s going to be on fire within half an hour.

He grins, and glances to his screen. The outer doors are open, and they’re working on the cage. He angles the monitor so he can see it from the window, and goes back to watching the birth of beautiful chaos.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

The city feels muted. On pause. Jim knocks on Peter’s door and thinks about how odd it is; that a day can feel completely normal for one person and be so vastly different for someone else. There must be people in Dublin who are going about their business as usual, not feeling anything strange. There must be others lulled by the thick summer, feeling they’ve fallen into some unnatural other world. Maybe even some like him, who can stand and touch a stone wall, and look at the spot where they threw up two days ago – concrete evidence that things happened, and that he exists – and still not feel the world to be true.

Peter unfastens the door and then walks away from it, not bothering to open it for him. Jim blinks slowly, and moves inside. It’s dim, despite the sun’s haze. Curtains are half-drawn in places, and even though the back door is open for air, the shadow of the house keeps full light away. Jim leans in the doorframe of the kitchen and watches Peter sit. He hasn’t shaved, and he’s been drinking. Untidy like this, he looks older.

‘Stabbing?’

He shrugs. Jim lets it go because sure, what does it matter? They’re dead, that’s the important thing – or would be, if it were important at all. More odd, he thinks. That it did matter a few days ago, when things were different and he didn’t know what he was going to do. Funny how fast priorities can change. Fluidity is key. He’ll remember that.

‘McBride won’t come to you yet. That’d show weakness. But you can’t go to him, pointing out that he needs-‘

‘I know, alright?’

‘He has to come and accept your terms, as if-‘

‘I _know_ , Jim.’

Jim stretches his neck out. Runs through a checklist of all the things that need to be done today. Most of them are inconsequential, routine. Still necessary. The other stuff is bigger, but he finds himself calm about the whole thing.

‘Be ready to go at quarter to six. I’ll come here.’

Peter glares. He looks like he hasn’t slept. ‘You haven’t told me what we’re doing, yet.’

‘And I’m not going to. Don’t worry, it’s easy. I won’t keep you out late. I’ve got a dinner to get to.’

‘So you came here just to tell me that? You could have phoned.’

‘Maybe I wanted to see your pretty face.’ Peter doesn’t even bother to look sarcastic. Jim looks him over once more, but there’s nothing new to see. ‘I came because you should have names for me.’

‘Should I?’

‘You said you were going to call your old Army mates. You’re going to need a bit of help in the next few weeks, unless you trust Kavanagh’s idiots to back you up against McBride. Though you should realise half of them are probably working for him by now.’

Peter scrubs his hand over his forehead. Inhales, exhales. His tone is a study in forced calm. ‘I’ve been a bit busy, Jim.’

‘Which is why I came here so you could _give_ me the names, and I can bug you about phoning them tomorrow. Also because-‘

‘You want to be sure I’m calling the people I say I am. And to see if you can check them out in advance. I get it. I’m not you, but I’m not completely stupid.’

Jim shrugs. It’s pointed enough to say _yes, you are_ without words. The silence is also all the _get on with it_ needed, because they both know resistance is not going to happen.

‘How many do you want me to phone? And – what? Just army? I was in the police as well, which you obviously know. There were a few who’d do a bit of work off the books. And-‘

Jim’s already shaking his head. ‘They’re up in the North, aren’t they? Even if they came down to help you out, it’s too messy and they’re not trained well enough. One soldier’s worth four of the police. And you don’t want any of your UDA pals. They’ll be flagged crossing the border, and you might as well paint targets on them for the Garda. Ex-army guys are what you want.’

Peter lights a cigarette, and then rips a square out of the cereal box next to him on the table. There’s a biro in the fruit bowl. He stares at the cardboard for a minute, then writes down four names and hands it over. ‘I’ll phone them tomorrow. The one with the mark next to his name might still be serving, though. Are we finished? I need a sleep if we’re working again tonight.’

Jim scans the names, then takes Peter’s lighter and sets fire to them. He releases the edge of the cardboard when it’s burning his fingers, and douses the remains in his tea. ‘Quarter to six. Be ready.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Peter mutters, sullen into his fag. Jim smiles, and turns on his heel.

‘That’s right, Peter. You’re learning.’

 

*  


_Belfast. 1993._

 

The phone rings. He doesn’t pick it up.

Tommy watches the screen and Jim watches the riot, his mind ablaze. Sick with envy. _Look_ at them. Running around, throwing things. Screaming at the top of their lungs, every fibre and sinew coming together to propel the crudest of weapons. Bricks, bottles, stones. Some of them have discovered fire, and are lighting rags stuffed into milk bottles half full of petrol. Their bodies make a perfect arc, each one a Discobolus Myron could have sculpted in marble. So primitive, and so unaware of it. All giving into their heart’s desire. Violence, rage, belief. He bets every single one of them feels complete in this moment, filling their maximum potential, right where they feel they need to be.

He remembers school again. That first day, amid the screaming and the running and the painting crude houses on thick grey paper. He was in the wrong place then and he’s in the wrong place now, because all that noise, that’s not right, that’s not where he’d be happy. He hears Colm’s body hit the ground. Sees Carl thrashing in the water, and then sinking; down, down, heavier than a stone, perfectly still on the bottom of the pool. He’d been in the right moment then, hadn’t he? There’d been satisfaction with Carl; peace, and knowing he’d done the right thing. No such thing with Colm; he’d spent last night in a fever pitch, itching to get out of his skin. Adrenaline made him claw the insides of his mind, dying to burst free. After putting in an appearance with Jack, he’d almost gone out to find a different kind of distraction and it’s worrying, how close he came to doing it. It would’ve been stupid, at the exact moment he couldn’t afford to be stupid. Maybe he should have come up with a way of getting rid of Colm that didn’t involve doing it himself.

The phone rings again. He doesn’t pick it up. He watches the human conveyor belt unloading bags of cash and change from the van. They’ve all got balaclavas on, but Fergus is easy to spot at the head of the line, and the one off to the side not doing anything is Jordan Montgomery. And it doesn’t make sense that he’s here if he was just bringing the guns up from South Armagh. He must have come for the after-party. Or the other possibility, which-

He picks the phone up.

‘Tommy, what the _fuck_ -‘

‘Sorry,’ he says in a vague tone, letting his envy fade to settle under Tommy’s calm veneer. And there’s a pause, where Donal clearly thinks he should elaborate on why he hasn’t been answering the phone. He doesn’t. The silence hangs, not diluted by the wailing sirens from the street below.

‘They’re going to want the cameras any second. Are you still watching?’

‘’course.’

He counts milliseconds, weighing Donal’s displeasure and stress.

‘I’m still on my way. Roads are blocked off. Sit tight, I’ll get to you.’

‘’kay.’

‘What’s _wrong_ wid’ya? You sound li – - you’re not drinkin’ there, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Fuck, I’m – I’ve not got time. I’m getting Jack, we’re on our way. Watch for the thumbs up.’

They’ve told him that about fifteen times. Do they not think he’d remember? He puts the phone down. There’s an almighty _crash_ from outside, and he glances out just long enough to see a car being turned over three streets away. Back on the TV, Fergus turns and raises his thumb. He hits a few buttons, and the red lights flicker on as the feed reconnects to the security office at City Hall.

There’s eight men in the room. Fergus, Montgomery, and six others. Five of them are carrying weapons, and three are swinging the last of the coin bags into the getaway van that Jack picked up the night before.

And then the five are grabbing the three, and kicking the back of their knees out so they hit the floor. There’s no audio on the feed, but the shouts are clear enough; anger and adrenaline from the attackers, surprise – and then understanding, and then terror – from the attacked.

Jim puts his feet up on the desk, and tilts his head at the screen. Fergus is glaring into the camera, and Jordan Montgomery rummages in a hold-all. He emerges with a pistol and makes a show of checking it’s loaded. The three unfortunates are now exposed to the world, their balaclavas dragged off, their fear on full display. Two of them are making an attempt to plea for their lives, but the third is already in tears. No one’s listening to begging anyway; they’re on a schedule. This is probably what all the stress was about between Fergus and Montgomery. The best way to do this, the strongest message, blah blah. Jim finds his interest is waning, and he can’t find an emotion inside him when one of the goons pulls out a Union Jack, rips it into three, and shoves a piece into each of the mouths of the soon-dead men. So, they were informers. This is all a show for the British, to prove the IRA knows when their own have been turned.

What’s interesting is his own reaction to this specific punishment. When Montgomery steps up behind the first, it just looks like he’s going to execute him. But then the man is kicked down onto his front and Jim sits up straight, remembering that of course it wouldn’t be that easy. His stomach jolts, which is…weird. There was no such reaction to Carl. Maybe it’s all the blood, and the scream that’s somehow more powerful because it’s silent. The explosion of bone and cartilage as the bullet rips through the kneecap. The visible terror of the other two waiting for their turn. The crying man has already pissed himself, the stain visible as a black patch on the grainy screen. Jim wrinkles his nose as the second kneecap goes, and then cruelty on cruelty, the guy is dragged back up to kneel on his shattered legs, held there screaming while his mates get the same treatment.

Jim finds himself glad they’re not doing the eye thing. He doesn’t want to see that, and it’s a revelation he puts away to examine later. He always assumed he’d be immune to violence, because he doesn’t give a toss about the ones dying. The blood though, the _mess_. It’s a bit unnecessary.

Two more minutes, three bullets to the back of the head, and it’s over. Jim glances the bodies over as someone spray-paints another boring anti-English slogan on the ground, and everyone else puts their guns away and starts climbing into the van.

…all except Fergus, who is pulling a revolver from his jacket. Jim leans forward again, back on alert, forgetting all about his distaste for this. Because he suspected, but-

-he finds himself laughing a second later, as Fergus turns on Jordan Montgomery, drags the balaclava off his head from behind and puts a bullet straight through his brain. And then his stomach jolts again, because _ew_. That’s…honestly gross. But he can’t look away because everyone else is clearly stunned, which means no one was in on this. Fergus pulls out another British flag, spits on it and throws it down on what used to be Montgomery’s head.

Jim sits back, his mind teeming with new information, new possibilities. If one of the top men in South Armagh was informing for the British, it means the IRA could be compromised in an untold number of ways. Informants are nothing new, of course; hell, ordinary women in the street do it, persuaded by army intelligence soldiers who sleep with them for information. But that’s rumour and hearsay, shop gossip. Montgomery was a leader, and now there’ll be a war unless they do a purge.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters, and ignores the phone when it starts ringing. Because he’s done here, and it’s a bloody good job he’s done here. If things are about to melt down, the new kid who isn’t even sworn in yet needs to be gone.

Luckily, he never planned to leave a trace of himself behind.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

Jim sleeps in the afternoon. He was up all night, and wouldn’t have been able to rest then anyway. But jobs have been ticked off now; the admin, the car, the jacket, Peter, the book. Now it’s just step-by-step through the execution, and he can’t start that until later. So he sleeps, and then gets up, takes a bath, gets dressed. His head is ordered, and calm. Anticipation sits as a bomb in the centre of all the boxes today is squared into; if it explodes, everything will scatter. He edges around it, and if it threatens to rise he just steps through the sequence again, and reminds himself that everything is in hand. He knows what they’re all going to do. It’s just a question of working through the list.

‘Jimmy, where d’you think you’re going? We’re out to dinner tonight.’

‘I know mam, sorry. I’ll be there. But I forgot I’ve got to take a book back to the library.’ He slings his rucksack over his shoulder, and gives his most apologetic smile. ‘I’ll meet you there at quarter-to, okay? I’ve got to get this in before closing, or I’ll get smacked with a massive fine.’

She makes an annoyed sound but waves him off, never one to waste money. ‘Suppose it’ll be easier if we can all fit in Steven’s car, anyway. Don’t you be late.’

‘Won’t. See you in a bit.’

Dublin passes before his eyes, grey and hot, flat, boring, smelling like the fumes chugging out of the bus. It seems further away than just on the other side of this glass. Unreal, like a snow globe. He can pick it up and shake it, but he’ll never feel the snow fall around him. It’s in his hand, not a part of him. He’s the last one off when the bus drags to a halt in the city centre, lost in thought as he stares at his home town through the window. Peter’s house is fifteen minutes away, but he’ll take a cab. There’s one more player in this game, one more pawn to slot into place before it’s ready to go.

 

*

  
  
_Belfast. 1993._

 

‘Tommy! Jesus, Tommy, where are ya!?’

Shouting, always shouting. The phone is ringing, on and on and _on_. Jim is at the window, watching them shout down below as well. Watching them riot. Watching them live their lives, such as they are. His mouth is watering a bit, but he’s not sure why. It’s all…a lot. Very _loud_. And he loves it, he can’t help it, but he’s not _part_ of it and there’s a kind of disconnect somewhere that he hasn’t seen before; some part of him that wants to go and join in, and the rest that finds it disgusting because they’re all so fucking _pathetic_.

‘Tommy!’

He turns his head a bit. Jack bursts through the door on the other side of the room. It’s an open plan office, the whole level clear with only desks and computers separating them. His is still switched on, showing police swarming all over the dead bodies at City Hall.

‘Why’re-‘ Jack runs to the phone and picks it up. The silence of it is blissful, but his yelling is not. ‘He’s still here, Donal. I dunno. He’s - -

 _\- what?_ ’

Jim smiles to himself. He can see Donal at the payphone down the road, staring up in his direction. Everything further out is smoke and racket, sirens and red lights flashing through tear-gassed streets. An armoured vehicle smashes through a makeshift barricade, and men scatter out of the mist. It’s chaos, and he’s never seen anything so gorgeous.

Except for Carl. Carl was better than anything.

‘ _Tommy_.’

A hand on his shoulder drags him ‘round, and pushes his back against the wall. Jack is white-faced and scared, and it’s hilarious. Jim starts to laugh, and doesn’t stop even when he’s shaken and his head bounces off the plaster.

‘Fergus is dead. All of ‘em. The van blew up with the money.’

Yes. He knows. That’s funny too.

‘Tommy, what the fuck are– what’s the _matter_? Come on, we’ve got to go.’

He pulls himself together and nods, wriggling out of the hold to pick his bag up. Jack looks relieved and leads the way, and Jim can’t quite fathom how anyone could be so stupid. You find out your boss is dead from a bomb, and don’t think to ask who had access to one recently? Who was there when that van was stolen last night?

‘Jack,’ he says when they’re downstairs, and have passed a room with the security guard tied up inside. ‘I forgot something.’

None of this feels real. He is not part of his body. Jack says, ‘what?’ and turns around, and Jim takes a detonator out of his bag and presses the button on it.

The noise is unbearable. It hurts _so much_. And he’s grinning because it’s the only way to keep hold of himself in this moment, and he thinks of Carl and he thinks of those silent, screaming men, and he sees Montgomery’s head explode, and everything is suddenly _wonderful_. Freedom from the ties of logic and reason, flying headlong into the sun.

He falls to his knees. He can feel the laugh coming. He can’t help it. It’s a bubble in his chest, an expanding balloon of air with edges like a knife, cutting him all the way up. It pauses when the ceiling falls in behind him, trapped between his lungs, pressing on his heart. Blood roars in protest. Dust coats the inside of his mouth. And then it bursts, ripping out of him like lightning through clouds; high, manic, sharp, slicing the air in two.

‘You fucked up little bastard.’

He has to agree. A mirror hangs lopsided on the wall; his face grinning back at him through the ash and smoke, white teeth and too-bright eyes, blood running from a gash on his forehead.

‘You _fucked up_ little bastard.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, and turns his eyes up to where Jack has pulled a gun from his pocket and is standing above him, pressing it to his temple.  

‘It was you.’

‘It was me.’

And now he’s going to get a bullet in his head? No. He has a gun of his own, and he knew this was going to happen because he planned it this way. He wanted Jack to know it was him. Ego, maybe. But not really, because does it count when the people who know the truth are going to be dead? Something else to think about later. The rational part of his brain, the one that stays detached no matter what else is going on, tells him it’s a weakness he’ll have to cut free. But not now. Now he gets to pull the trigger and appreciate a moment of surprise on the kid’s face, his fingers going limp in the split-second before he falls.

It’s not as gross as the stuff he saw on the screen. It’s still not great, but he’s not connected enough to think about it. Jack’s gone, and that only leaves one left who ever knew he was here. Jim stumbles back up the corridor, and checks on the security guard. Dead. Or unconscious. Concrete to the head. It doesn’t matter, the man never saw him. He shuts the door and forgets about him, heading back upstairs to make sure the computer he used was destroyed. And because he needs to see what’s going on out there; this wonderful, beautiful mess that he created.

 

*

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

‘Gonna tell me, then?’

‘Yes.’

He drags his bag over from the back seat and opens the main compartment. Peter glances down and swears, the car swerving to one side before he rights it.

‘Jesus Christ! You’re carrying it around in a _backpack_?’

Jim zips it up, and puts his feet up on the dashboard. ‘We’re putting it back.’

‘- you are fucking. Joking.’

‘Nope.’ He smacks his lips off the _p_ , a decisive sound. ‘Not.’

‘…why the fuck would you steal it if you’re just going to put it back? You said this would set us up.’

He set it would set _him_ up. Details. He looks out of the window. ‘And it will. Think about it, would you?’

‘Why? I thought that was your thing.’

He sighs. Fine. ‘It’d be a pain to take it out of the country. It’d be a pain to maintain it while things die down. It can’t be sold anywhere the public might get wind of it, so I’d have to hang on to it while I find criminals with a penchant for ninth-century manuscripts. All in all, a pain.’

‘So why’d you even take it?’

‘Be _cause_ , Peter, it’s worth more than a payoff. What’s more marketable than an ancient book? The brains of the man who can steal it – and then put it back, right under the noses of every copper out looking for it.’

He allows himself the satisfaction of watching realisation dawn. It’s quite a pretty thing, brightening a canvas that’s been dark for a few days. Peter glances over, and even though the respect is grudging, it’s still clear.

‘Okay,’ he says, trying to sound measured. ‘I see how that can be valuable. Dare I ask how you plan to do it?’

‘I’m not going to. You are. I told you I’ve got a dinner to get to.’

The brightness dims. ‘You are not fucking leaving me with the Book of fucking Kells, Jim. I am not getting caught with that.’

‘Calm down. Do you think I’d let you get caught? You’d sing like a bird, and we’re not going to risk that. But you also can’t think I’m letting you out of it.’

‘Jim. _No_.’

‘Ohhhh, I see. This is one of things where you don’t trust me. Because I could just leave it with you and then phone the police, couldn’t I? I’ve even got a tame one in my pocket. You take the fall, no one believes your story about a genius kid setting you up, blah blah…this is dull. Take a right here.’

The car swings right. Jim doesn’t bother looking at Peter, who’s so obviously getting back towards furious. ‘You forget the important bits, naturally. One is that you don’t have a choice, and the second is that I _want_ the thing put back, because it’s going be good for business. So why would I grass you up? What good are you to me locked up?’

‘If it were anything else, I’d see your point. But this is a book they’ve been screaming about for weeks. If they find it, they’ll string me up.’

‘You know they won’t, and you know why.’

Peter’s mouth shuts so fast Jim can hear his teeth clash together.

‘Besides, I didn’t say we were going to put it back in the library. That wouldn’t be any fun. We’re going to make a bit more of a statement with it. Pull into that car park over there.’

They turn off the street into a multi-storey car park that towers five storeys’ above. On the third, Jim points at a spot and pulls his feet down off the dashboard. When the engine’s dead, he gestures at a building across the road. ‘There.’

‘That’s the waxwork museum.’

‘Yeah. And I went in this morning and tampered with the fire exit in the alley behind it. It’s ten feet down from the staff entrance at the back, you can’t miss it. It’ll need a bit of forcing, but nothing that’ll cause an issue. The museum closes in twenty minutes, and the staff will be out by nine.’

‘Alarms?’

Jim holds a piece of paper out. There are six digits on it, along with a few lines and arrows. ‘You’ve got thirty seconds to get from the back – there – to reception, _there_.’

‘Then what? Just leave it at the front desk?’

‘Haven’t you got any imagination? Don’t answer that. No, I’ve left instructions for you. You can’t miss them.’

He meets Peter’s eyes, and smiles. The man does not smile back. He really is a shadow of the man Jim first laid eyes on looking after Frankie Kavanagh. It’s such a shame.

‘Why isn’t that reassuring?’

‘Did you think it was meant to be?’ Jim opens his bag up, and pulls out the Book of Kells. He has taken some care to make sure it doesn’t get damaged. He’s wrapped it in a plastic bag from the corner shop. ‘Here you go. All yours.’

‘Fucking hell!’ Peter snatches it off him and then clearly has no idea what to do with it. There are limited places to hide it in a car, and it’s too big to fit in the glove compartment. Jim snorts with laughter, and earns himself another glare. ‘Just go if you’re going to. I suppose you’ll be laying low over the weekend?’

‘Why would I need to lay low?’

‘Then _I_ do.’

Jim smirks, and puts his shoulder into the door to force it open. ‘Okay. Well. Good luck. And do try to remember what’ll happen if you fuck this up, darling.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

But Jim is not even a little bit worried about him forgetting that. The instructions he’s left for him are very specific. A two-step journey of discovery, because if Belfast taught him anything, it’s that he needs to have fun with stuff like this. If it’s not going to give him that sensation of freedom there’s no point bothering at all. He might not get it every time, but it’s something to aim for. What’s life without the pursuit of achievable goals?

 

*

 

_Belfast. 1993._

 

‘What’s goin’ on, Tommy? Was it you?’

Yes, it was him, and what’s going on is that they’re all dead, and the city’s on fire. He’ll go back to Colm’s place tonight, and pick up the stuff he put aside. He’ll be back in Dublin this time tomorrow, watching news reports of more domestic terrorism up in the north.

‘Jack’s dead. There’s a detonator next to him-‘

Another riot, an office building destroyed. A robbery, with the proceeds destroyed when a device the thieves were carrying detonated in their getaway van, killing the lot of them.

‘-but he couldn’t have…’

And reports of murder in City Hall, but the details will be hazy on that one. There’ll be far more truth whispered in pubs and in shop queues, with every IRA member watching their back for retribution coming up from Armagh.

And he did it. He did all of it, one boy, playing these idiots like a violin. He is sixteen years old, watching a city burn, ash in his mouth and fire in his veins, vibrating with the need to blaze.

He is going to be king of the world. The whole. Fucking. World.

‘Tommy?’

He turns his head a fraction.

‘Maybe come down off the edge?’

‘Why?’ he says, and flings his arms wide, face turned up to the sky. He feels like he could ascend, if only he wills it hard enough. And he will, one day. But not yet.

‘You might fall. And the army’s on its way, lad. We should go.’

If he shuts the noise down, he could swear the universe talks to him. The big silence, calling him on. Pulling him up, telling him to keep reaching out because he’ll get there one day.

‘Tommy, you’re bleeding. You’ve blown half the building up. It might fall.’

He lets his arms drop. The moment is gone. The flames licking the inside of his mind turn to ember, red and then white, hot in the centre of his brain, a block past which no thought can survive. He just wanted to be left alone, Donal. You stupid, _stupid_ , creature. He spins on his heel and jumps down to the roof without a sound, alarm klaxons sounding between his ears, _alert alert, red alert_ , and the knife is in his hand before either of them have time to register how it’s going to happen, only that it is.

‘My name’s not Tommy,’ he whispers, knuckles buried in the soft flab of Donal’s belly, blood flooding his hand. He twists it, and earns a choke. ‘It’s Moriarty. And you’re going to tell people to watch out for me.’

Despite everything, the pain and the blood, hope flares in Donal’s eyes. Maybe it’s all right. Maybe his guts are not sliced open, spilling blood and waste, tipping poison into his system as they stand. Maybe his legs will hold out, maybe he didn’t just soil himself. Maybe that smell is something else.

But then a smile. Donal sobs once in fear, and pain, and then he falls; the last of them to know Jim was ever here.

He looks down at the body afterwards. There’s blood again, but he feels no revulsion this time, not even when he carves a jagged ‘M’ into his chest on a surge of adrenaline. Nothing can survive the heat of his mind, and maybe it’ll be bad later but for now – - now he just takes one last look over the riot, a view that will forever be the only way he thinks of Belfast; the scene of his first crime away from home, and the first time he set the world on fire.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP).
> 
> Song: Florence and the Machine - Howl


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...the end is near...and so I face...the final curtain...
> 
> If nothing else, it's the one thing I wanted it to be: finished. \o/ I'll give it a month or two, and then get into Part II. 
> 
> Even briefer notes: UDA - as mentioned before (I think) Is the Ulster Defence Association.  
> UFF - Ulster Freedom Fighters  
> UVA - Ulster Volunteer Association. 
> 
> The only thing you need to know about them is they're like the Protestant version of the IRA. Still domestic terrorists, with much the same methods of fighting. They fought to keep Northern Ireland part of the UK, and to counter the IRAs attempts to unite Ireland under its own government.  
> 

 

_Sometimes hate is not enough_

_To turn this all to ashes…_

_We're running to the edge of the world_

_We're running, running away_

 

 

_Dublin. 1993._

 

When he turns his face to the sky, he tastes fire. His mouth, full of ash. A world burning.

And he thinks of Sherlock. Wonders whether he blazes too, somewhere under the cool tranquillity of his drugs. What it might be like when he wakes up, and what if he were there to see it.

He considers, too, whether the kid would be sad to know he’s losing someone tonight. It could have been so good. If he has one regret with the way things have gone, it’s that he never introduced himself at a point where they could have been something to each other that meant…something. He doesn’t even know what. Doesn’t know what he wants from that boy, except _something_.

And now it’s too late. He can’t be trapped anymore.

He has to be _free_.

 

*

 

The restaurant is a converted coach house, with a vaulted ceiling high above that’s hung with wooden wheels and replicas of tools. The walls are exposed brick, and the floor is stripped back to its boards. They serve starters on wooden platters and dishes in odd shapes, one step away from bringing food on a bed of artisan straw.

‘It’s a bit…much,’ was his mother’s verdict, an hour ago. His father’s silence agreed, along with disapproval of having to pay for something so clearly trying to be _trendy_. He would have preferred to go to the pub. So would Stevie. David’s the only one who fits here, someone who’ll embrace a modern Dublin and move with it. Not a throwback, like his older brother. Not like Jimmy, who…well. Not like Jimmy. _Jimmy_ , thinks Jim, would be someone who lived abroad. But he’d come back to Dublin eventually, maybe when one of his parents got properly ill. He might work at Trinity. He could change the world’s understanding of deep space, the workings of the universe. He could do so many things, but he’s not going to. Jim can see that life in the palm of his hand, and it weighs something for a while. But somewhere between the starter and entrée he drops it, and can’t be bothered to pick it up again. He doesn’t watch it float away, doesn’t give it a second thought.

He has steak for dinner, just like his dad, just like Stevie. David has chicken, their mam has fish. They’re talking about…honestly, he’s not sure. Somewhere in the main course he realises that he’s been answering questions and making contributions and he has no idea what about. He used to be perfect at this, but the past year has made him lax and there’s no point bothering to improve now. He puts his knife down and picks up his Coke, looking around the restaurant at all the other people doing exactly this. They’re not the only family out for a weekend meal, but there’s plenty of other types of human on display. Couples, and friend groups. Girl’s night out, lad’s night out, mixed night out. Professional people, the odd working dinner. The entire gamut of human socialisation. The only thing missing is individuals, because they don’t tend to venture out to eat on a weekend night. Except me, he thinks, and looks around again. Maybe not? Anyone could be an individual in a room full of people. In a family. He thinks of Sherlock, and anger tastes like bile.

‘Y’all right, Jimmy?’

He nods and goes back to his plate. Stevie’s weird family code thing is in full effect, as usual. If you take him out with the parents he’ll be polite and act like life’s just lovely. It’s not even about putting a good face on things in public, though there might be elements of it. It’s more that, in Stevie’s world, family dinners are events to be enjoyed, and it’s everyone’s duty to contribute to that goal.

‘What are you boys on with tonight, then? S’pose you’ll be off out with your mates, Steven?’

‘Aye, mam. Davy’s coming too, aren’t you?’

David nods. He’s spent longer making sure his dessert cutlery is lined up properly next to his plate than eating anything. He’s been lining things up a lot recently, but so what? It’s an idle thought, dismissed as easily as it came. Jim watches him fuss, the only one to notice, as their dad asks, ‘you’re not taking Jimmy?’

‘I’m too young.’ He makes sure to cut in before Stevie can politely deflect. ‘Can’t buy drinks. And I don’t want to go anyway.’

‘Suppose that’s usual.’

The man’s clearly pissed off about not having an empty house for the evening. But that’s good. It’ll make the next bit easier.

‘I would have asked you. I didn’t think you’d want to.’

‘I don’t. I’ve got other plans.’

The table’s attention focuses. It’s like a rock falling on his head after the detachment of the last hour. He spears some steak to make a show of ignoring it, and takes bets with himself on who’ll broach the topic first. He wins when it’s their mam.

‘With that girl?’

He pauses long enough to imply _no_ , then says, ‘yes.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Denise.’ Jim would laugh at his dad’s clear doubt, though he so badly wants to believe this could be true. ‘Before you ask, I met her at uni. She’s doing her Masters.’

‘And what sort of girl is she, that age and goin’ out with a sixteen-year-old boy?’

‘I didn’t say,’ he replies, in a measured tone, ‘we were going out. Not like that.’

‘Like what then?’

‘We’re friends.’

Stevie huffs quietly, and exchanges glances with their father. Their mother looks pleased, and David just looks at all of them, his gaze coming to rest on Jim. It lingers, before he looks away. Jim hates them all, _all_ of them. But fine, let them believe he’s a smitten child, living in hope of something that’ll never happen.

‘Well, then. You have fun, love,’ his mother says, in a tone she probably thinks is soothing but is really so patronising it could flatten a person. Jim doesn’t bother to quell the flash of anger this time.

‘Better than getting it on with boys, right, da?’ The table falls silent. Jim forks a couple of chips up, grins at his father and shoves them into his mouth. ‘That’s what you all think, anyway. Being the voice of experience, I can tell you that no, it’s not better at all. But Denise is all right, so I’ll try my luck.’

You could freeze a volcano with the air around them. David is the only one not glaring at him, fixated on his plate and fiddling with his cutlery again.

‘One more word out of you, young man, and-‘

‘And what?’

He meets every eye with a smile. The calm centre of his brain tells him this is unnecessary, but it’s still amusing for a few seconds. What does it even matter anymore?

‘When you’re back under our roof-‘

‘No. You’ll be under _my_ roof, dad.’

David’s eyes close. Stevie leans forward and hisses at him; unforgivable, to break the veneer of a family occasion. ‘Will you _shut your gob_ , Jimmy. We’re trying to have a nice dinner.’

He raises his eyebrows, mocking. ‘I’m not talking about ass-‘

‘ _Shut up_.’

He chuckles, and holds his hands up. ‘Right, yeah. Sorry.’

The adults release a collective breath. Jim could happily die, the pressure of them sitting on his neck and making him want to sink through his chair, the floor, the earth. They’re all trying to settle back into their food, shifting in their seats, looking for a fresh topic of conversation to steer things towards the acceptable. It’s tempting to capsize them again, but there’s no point. They’ll be rationalising it already, trying to tell themselves it’s another teenage mood; natural at his age to push, nothing to it. They’ll be telling themselves it’s not how it used to be. Jim thinks of Sherlock again, and this time it doesn’t taste like bile. His mouth waters. He has to curl his fingers into fists, resting his nails in the cuts he made days ago when he was raging at these people, desperate to be rid of them.

Sometimes he loses time, thinking about the life he could have had. If his mum and his brother had been as clever as him, and his father had been willing to let them shine. If he’d been born to people who wouldn’t want him to be normal, and wouldn’t expect him to dull his own edges in order to fit in. Sometimes the fury and injustice makes him cry. Sometimes he wants to take Sherlock Holmes and introduce him to a knife, so he knows what it’s like to hurt. There are other times when the despair dims the world to a shadow of empty space around his body, a black hole that moves with him; no light, no air, no way out. Is it wrong to think about dying, and feel nothing but relief at the prospect of all this being over? That used to make him cry too. When was the last time he shed tears? He can’t even remember.

There are eyes on him. He keeps his face down but turns his head, meeting David’s even gaze. Their mam starts up with, ‘did you hear the terrible news about Father Mulroney?’ and Jim thinks _yes_ because he is the terrible news about Father Mulroney, but that’s another man that’s dead now so what does it matter? David looks like he wants to say something, his eyes concerned, but in the end his mouth stays closed.

‘Killed himself, I heard. Sure it’s a terrible thing, a priest losing himself to Hell like that.’

Their dad grunts agreement. Their mam witters on, Stevie throwing in words here and there. Jim looks away from David and the two of them finish their dinners in silence. Jim thinks some part of him might even miss David when he’s gone, but that slides away too, just another thing about his family he’s unable to make stick. The food drags into dessert, delayed still further when a woman and her husband stop next to the table amid cries of, ‘haven’t seen you in _years_ …are these your boys!?...Margaret, it’s _so nice_ to see you…must go for coffee…’ and Jim is smiling politely and ticking the minutes off in his head, counting down and down and down towards freedom.

He can hear sirens after the woman’s gone, and he stretches his neck out until the tendon pops. A legacy of the Belfast bomb; a strained muscle that’s turned into a tic to relieve tension. Funny what things you pick up along the way, and why. Something that seems like nothing can stay with you for the rest of your life, for no other reason than you get used it. This is what builds a person, he thinks. Their collections of tics and foibles, each one as meaningless as the last. Wouldn’t it be great to shed them all, go back to the blank slate of the start? But maybe there’s no such thing as the blank state. He holds no truck with original sin, but you can’t argue with genetics. He was born with this brain, so maybe he was always going to be what he is. Maybe Sherlock was always going to be a drug addict, too weak to take control of what he was given. Too _afraid_. And if that’s so, it isn’t fair that he had to stick his nose into Carl’s death. Not fair to make Jim notice him, and then take himself away. Not _fair_ to show him there are people out there who could be something, and then aren’t.

‘What’re you having for pudding, Jimmy? Sticking with your usual?’

‘Yeah. Chocolate fudge cake, thanks.’ He smiles at his mother, tasting blood where he’s bitten down on the edge of his tongue, and hands the menu up to the waiter. ‘Warm, with cream.’

There are still sirens. Not just in his head, then. His father frowns at the open windows next to the street, though they’re on the other side of the room.

‘What’s all that racket?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. If I find out, I can let you know.’

‘Aye, well. Maybe just close the windows if they don’t hush.’

Jim counts down and down and down. They’re been here forever, an island sinking in an ocean of dining room chatter. Bubbles of laughter pop up, non-stop clinking of cutlery on china; wine glasses, talking, all this _talking_ when not one of them has anything interesting to say. It’s too hot, and his tie is tight around his neck. Blood in his mouth and there’s more sirens, and now he can taste ash. He blinks, and a head explodes. They’ll be here another hour by the time his mum finishes her coffee. Excellent timing; yes, good. Anyone would think he’d predicted how long this thing would drag on for.

‘So where’re you going with your wee girlfriend tonight, Jimmy? Back to the pictures, is it?’

‘Party,’ he says, and the cool voice of reason in the centre of his brain says _breathe_ , while his body thinks maybe he wants to throw up. Too hot, too much. Sweat turns cold on his forehead, and he stands so fast his chair scrapes the too-hip floorboards of this stupid place. ‘S’cuse me,’ he mutters, and bolts as fast as the packed room will allow.

Outside, it’s no better. Hotter, and there are people on the street. He closes his eyes and sees Belfast burning; a different kind of heat but no less claustrophobic. There were sirens there too, but they were at a safe distance. The police cars and army vans were streets away and down below; they were bearable, not like these Garda cars, screaming up the road three feet away. He puts his head on the bricks and tilts his face towards the sky, where it’d be cool and quiet if he could just reach that far; a place he’d be able to think without the chemicals of his body getting in the way.

‘What’s up, Jimmy?’

David, of course. The only safe option to follow him out. Jim closes his eyes, and tries to remember what words are. He swallows the blood. This is not the place to let it out. ‘I’m fine. Just too hot.’

His brother settles next to him, shoulders against dirty brick. They could be twins, him and David. Half an inch of height between them, and maybe a scar or two’s difference.

‘Just tell yourself something for me?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Tell yourself it’ll be over soon.’

David does not know how right he is. Jim would laugh, but it’s not funny. ‘Dinner? I know.’

‘Not dinner.’ Jim tilts his head just enough to see his brother’s profile from the corner of his eye. ‘The three of them will be gone in a few days. You won’t see Stevie for most of the year. The folks probably won’t be back until Christmas. You’ve only got to put up with them a few more days.’

‘And then?’ he says, and is surprised to find he genuinely wants to know if David has the answers. He gets a shrug instead, cloth rasping against the stone.

‘It’ll be you and me for the summer. I won’t bother you like they do. You can work. It’ll be quieter.’

Jim draws that other life back to him. Jimmy, who has a normal job, and a family he can stand to be around. He looks at it like an archaeologist looks at a fossil half-unearthed; a relic of something that used to be real, and now needs to be pieced together to make sense. And you never find the whole of it. You have to fill in the gaps with new pieces made to look like the old, cobble it together. It’ll never be how it was, and he doesn’t want it anyway.

‘Three more days, that’s all.’

It’s not just three more days, though. Agreeing to that means agreeing to it for a lifetime. And he can’t. He just can’t.

‘Would you miss me?’ The words blurt out without prompting. ‘If I was gone?’

David’s head turns. ‘Of course I would,’ he says, quietly. ‘You’re my brother, and you’re brilliant. We all would.’

…shame, he thinks. He almost had it. If he hadn’t brought in the others, he might have been just about believable. Jim smiles at the darkness on the inside of his eyelids, and breathes in. Another siren blares past, and he straightens with a push of his shoulders, stretching his neck just gently.

‘Pudding’ll be here.’

And he’s right. When they arrive back at the table it’s waiting for them, and Jim counts off one more hurdle before this is over.

‘You’ll never guess,’ says his mother, breaking meringue with her spoon. ‘All that noise out there. It’s about the waxworks.’

‘What about it?’ David says, and Jim slices a forkful of cake and dips it through his cream, savouring the bite though nothing tastes of anything this evening; plastic food for plastic people.

‘Dunno. The waiter says it’s on the news. Surrounded by the Garda, and some rumours about something big.’

‘S’not far away,’ Stevie adds, through a mouthful of custard. ‘We might have to evacuate if it’s a bomb or something. Might get away without paying, eh dad?’

‘That’d be worth it. This place is costing an arm and a leg.’

The three of them speculate away. Jim eats his cake, every last bite. David eats next to nothing, but his worry is not Jim’s problem. Closer and closer now, so near he can almost touch it. Plates are cleared, Stevie goes for a fag with their dad. People use the restroom, coffee is ordered. Tables around them empty and fill, wait staff dancing through with their hands full, clearing old crockery, changing a table cloth here and there, resetting places and ushering the next prop-people in. He feels like one of those movies where he sits in one place and the rest of the world is in fast-forward all around, his own body the only thing in focus.

‘It’s only the bloody Book,’ Stevie announces, dropping his weight back into his chair. ‘It just broke on the TV behind the bar. It’s turned up at the wax museum.’

‘What the bloody hell’s it doing there?’

‘Dunno. There’s just a copper on the news saying it’s been recovered. Not damaged, apparently.’

‘Did they arrest someone?’

‘Nope. They reckon there was a tip off, and they just went in and got it.’

‘Well, that’s good then. It’s about time they found it.’

But they didn’t find it, he thinks. It was given back to them, out of the goodness of my heart.

He drains his Coke, and uses the bathroom. There’s a small crowd around the bar, watching developments. Most of the people in the room don’t care, too young and drunk to give much of a toss, not when they’ve got a weekend of drinking and trying to pull ahead of them. When he gets back to the table, everyone else is standing too. The bill has been settled, jackets slipped back on, the last supper completed.

Out on the street, he watches Stevie hand his car keys over to his dad. ‘See you in the morning. We’re off.’ He kisses his mother on the cheek, nudges David, and they’re gone. Jim sees them not look back.

‘So, it’s a party you’re going to?’ she says when it’s just the three of them, and he nods.

‘I’ll be quiet when I come in. I won’t disturb you.’

‘Aye, well,’ his dad says briskly, and Jim is taken to arguments of the past; the brusque irritation that meant his belt would be coming off soon. ‘Make sure you don’t. And don’t be out too late, you’re not old enough.’

Jim looks at him. Taller, heavier, uglier; meaty in the shoulders and at the belly, looking uncomfortable in his suit and terrible tie. And then his mother, always a little plump and getting grey along with it; never a great beauty but pleasant enough, if that sort of normality is your thing. Her blouse has garish pink flowers and she’s fussing with her handbag, paying no attention, and getting in the way of people trying to walk past on the pavement. His dad is looking at her to avoid having to look at his youngest son.

Jim tilts his head, hands in his pockets.

‘Bye then.’

He turns on his heel. And that’s that.

 

*

 

There’s a lot of empty warehouses down at the docks. Some of them are abandoned and derelict, some are just closed for the weekend. Some just for the night. Jim lets himself into one of them via a side door, the click of his lockpicks loud in the silence. The door opens onto a hallway with what used to be offices on either side. They’re just shells of rooms now, a corridor leading to the old workshop floor. He walks with a casual step, unconcerned even when the next click he hears belongs to the hammer of a pistol being pulled back, the weapon cocked and ready to fire an inch above his right ear.

‘Peter,’ he says, and smiles into the open space. ‘You made it.’

‘You sick…you _sick_ …you fucking…’

‘Yes. No doubt. But you’d better put the gun down, I think. I imagine your hands are shaking.’

He counts milliseconds until they make seconds, then he counts them too. They’re at sixteen before the air next to him moves, and the ghost of metal is removed from his skull. ‘That’s better,’ he says, and walks on into the darkness. ‘Come. Sit.’

There’s a chair. You have to arrange the little details as well as the big ones. It’s what makes the whole thing worthwhile - though, he thinks, if he could do all this again knowing the choice he’d make at the end, it would have been so much more elegant. Note to self: never walk into a situation without knowing how it’s going to end up. Something to remember.

‘I’m not fucking _sitting_ -‘

‘ _Yes_ ,’ and it’s a yell that blasts through the chamber. ‘You _are._ ’

Peter pulls up with a gasp. Jim rounds on him, filled with rage because _enough_ with the _I’m not_ and _I can’t_ , just fucking _enough_.

‘ _Sit_.’

Peter sits. There’s light from the front entrance glowing through the window. Enough of it falls on him to show an ashen face, and the gun in his hand. Jim holds his out, palm up. There’s a pause, then Peter puts the pistol in it. Jim pushes the safety on, and puts it in his pocket.

‘I suppose you have some questions. Allow me.’

He walks to the other side of the room, and flicks a switch. A light comes on…in the building opposite. Another empty warehouse, another vast stretch of abandoned shop floor. It has a chair on it too, and someone’s sitting in it except he’s tied up and he’s wearing a bomb jacket. Crying, pale, blinking at the sudden light and obviously scared out of his wits.

Peter’s out of his seat in a flash. Jim expends a nanosecond considering the gun, then dismisses it and says nothing as fists close in the front of his shirt and drag him near.

‘My _my_.’ He grins, because all this is happening a very long way away. ‘You’re really not good at listening to instructions, are you? Shall we find out what happens when you don’t do as you’re told?’

The hands relax. Peter steps back, and if he was grey before he’s white now, breathing too hard to be healthy. ‘Let him go.’

‘No. I don’t think I will. Where’s the Polaroid?’

He holds his hand out again. Peter takes a photo from his pocket and gives it to him. Jim had left it at the waxworks as part of his instruction package; a picture of Eamon Boyd wearing his shiny new coat, strapped to the chair they can see if they look out of the window.

‘Sit.’

Peter sits again, every part of him shaking.

‘Nice boy, Eamon. I went back to the school last night, you see. I picked up his file from the office, had a root through.’ This is a lie. He did that part ages ago. ‘Then I thought…wellllll, I’m here anyway, might as well introduce myself.’

He paces, watching the boy across the way, not bothering with his father.

‘It was just like I thought. I told him I knew you, and you wanted to see him. But you can’t come to the school, he knows that, so he’d have to come up to town. He jumped at the chance. I picked him up off the bus after I left you a few hours ago.’

He turns on his heel, facing Peter for the first time. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happens next?’

It takes a minute. Then, ‘you’re the same age. The same height. If you’ve got his records…at a guess, Jim, I’d say you were planning to disappear.’

‘Mm.’ He resumes his walk. Round, and around. It’s true that Eamon is more or less the same build, and it’d be simple enough to break into his doctor and dentist’s surgeries to swap Jim’s records in. He did think about it. ‘When you work out the obvious flaw there, do speak up and let me know. It’ll be nice to see if you get it.’

Peter’s forehead wrinkles. Light shines off the sweat on it. ‘Then what? Tell me. Better yet, just let him go. This is nothing to do with him.’

‘True. But no.’ He takes the gun out of his pocket, and looks at it. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘…what? It’s mine.’

‘Yeeeees. But where did you _get_ it?’

‘In…I don’t know. Up north. Derry.’

‘Because it’s not a service weapon. You didn’t nick it from the army. And you weren’t in an armed section of the police - so, you got this from your UDA mates.’

‘So what?’

He walks again, tapping the barrel against the outside of his thigh. This conversation feels thick in him. Necessary, and he’s looking forward to purging it. He won’t think about it when it’s done.

‘I was in the north a few months ago. I learned quite a lot of interesting things there. Exhibit A-‘

He gestures towards the window, and waits.

A beat later and there’s a soft exhalation of breath that carries a whisper of, ‘ _shit_.’

‘Quite.’ He grins once, sharp. ‘Your boy over there, dressed in IRA Semtex. And you, a player for both sides.’

‘Jim…I haven’t - - I didn’t say anything, alright? You know I didn’t, or you wouldn’t have given me the book tonight. You told me right at the start you knew about my son, and-‘

The panic is really quite gratifying. It brings a warm throb of satisfaction that isn’t quite arousal, but isn’t far off. He waves his hand and Peter shuts up at once, finally getting that he needs to do as he’s told.

‘Did you know Jordan Montgomery?’

‘What? …not personally. I’d heard of him. Everyone had.’

‘And you heard what happened to him in April?’

‘Yeah.

…fuck off, that wasn’t you. That couldn’t have been you.’

It’d be fun to let him think so. But Jim shakes his head, a little regretful. ‘I can’t take credit, no. But I was there, and I did take care of the person who did it.’

He circles once more, letting this sink in. Peter doesn’t seem to know what to say, so says nothing. Wise, probably.

‘See, everyone knows the IRA’s riddled with informers. The UDA too, UVF, UFF, all the ones on your side. No one knows who to trust, really. But when they find one, I got to see first-hand what they do to them. It’s not nice. I don’t mind telling you, it made me feel quite sick.’

Peter looks sick. He looks like he knows what’s coming.

‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Peter. I’m not part of the IRA, and I’m not here to take you out on their behalf. I don’t give a toss who you were watching, and who you’re working for really. But when I came back here, and went back to playing Frankie Kavanagh, there _you_ were, watching his business. Telling me to be careful, all concerned. Not like all the rest, were you? So I thought I’d have a bit of a dig.’

The silence continues. Peter probably worked this bit out already, after the hint the other night.

‘My old boyfriend in the police, and his dirty little secret. Your file was _very_ interesting. Dishonourably discharged from the army I could understand, but from the police as well? Only to go straight into the UDA? Someone needs to work on their fiction-writing skills, because you don’t have to be me to work out you were a plant.’

More silence.

‘They created this nice little story that you were playing both sides while you were still in the police. What was it? Tipping off the paramilitaries before the coppers raided them? It was just to give them an excuse to fire you. You trotted off into the UDA and started informing on them, _until_ …you got your wife killed, and had to go on the run. You ended up down here. Want to fill me in on what happened there, lover?’

Peter’s jaw is set into a rigid line. One hand grips the edge of his plastic chair, and his eyes never leave his son.

‘No? Well, it doesn’t matter. I know your Loyalist pals killed her, which tells me they figured out you were informing on them. And that’s why you can’t see little Eamon. You don’t want them to find him through you. Because they are still looking for you, I can tell you that. I suppose it’s lucky you’ve got your protection detail lurking about. All those big ex-soldiers, taking your info on people like Frankie and passing it off to the Garda, watching your back in return. Not very subtle though, are they? Not difficult to lose.’

Peter licks his lips. ‘You hope you’ve lost them. How would you know if you haven’t?’

‘It doesn’t _matter_ if I haven’t, you idiot.’

It takes a minute for what that means to sink in. A minute that stretches on and on; he stays utterly still on the outside, but inside he fidgets like mad because he’s _sick_ of having to wait for them all to catch up.

Peter gets there eventually.

‘…please don’t kill him. Please.’ His face turns up, eyes full of tears. ‘Please, Jim. I don’t care about anything else. I don’t know why - - whatever you want. Just please don’t.’

Jim tilts his head to get a better look. And because he knows the quizzical expression freaks people out. He’s practiced it before. ‘You really think I’m going to kill him, and say the body’s mine? Make myself vanish because of what you might have said? And what would the police think happened to _him_ if I did that? Assume he’d been kidnapped in revenge on you?’

‘I don’t _know_. I don’t care, just please don’t!’

It’s a cry of pure desperation. Hilarious, and quite sweet. Jim watches Peter’s mouth tremble and twist, hears breath juddering into his lungs. This might be the point some people felt sorry for him, but he doesn’t know how to do that.

‘Did you put the book where I told you to?’

‘Yes.’

‘What have you told your handlers about me?’

‘Nothing.’

He sticks his hand in his pocket, and pulls out a detonator.

‘Nothing! I swear, nothing. You told me right at the start you knew where Eamon was, so I didn’t-‘

‘You didn’t think I was a threat at first, though. Sure you didn’t drop my name in one of your little reports?’

‘No, I…I never did.’

Jim chuckles, and steps forward. Peter’s cheek is tacky when he pats it. ‘Because you were fucking me, a sixteen-year-old kid. And you didn’t want them to know that.’

No reply, of course. Jim can’t help laughing properly and is seized by a need to move. He spreads his arms wide and spins on the spot, head hanging back in abandon. ‘I never thought I’d do this. It’s so _Bond villain_ , isn’t it? Sitting you down, walking you through it.’

Peter’s watching his boy again. Running through his life probably, while he can. Then a lick over dry lips, and a whisper. ‘So, how’s it end? If you’re not using him to be you, then what?’

‘Honestly sweetheart, he’s mostly here to make sure you sit down and do as you’re told.’

And for dramatic effect. That too. To prove that he _could_. Jim grins as Peter’s face snaps up, and then he presses the barrel of his gun to the middle of his forehead. ‘I think guns are boring. But sadly necessary tonight. On your knees, lover.’

The air wraps around them, buzzing with silence as Peter blinks up at him. For a second it feels like he might not move; there’s a shift in focus that suggests he’s thinking about lunging. But Jim lifts the detonator in the other hand and the moment dies. Peter shoves forward and lands on his knees. Jim circles once more, but close this time. The barrel an inch from the back of his head.

‘I really never wanted to do this myself, you know.’

A tiny huff of unamused laughter. ‘You could have called the UDA down to do it for you.’

‘I know. But why give them cause to ask around after me? And they’ll get the credit anyway. It’s their gun.’

‘Promise me you’ll leave him alive?’ Peter’s head turns just enough so their eyes can meet. He’s got balls, Jim’ll give him that. ‘I’ll kneel here, and let you tie my fucking hands, Jim. If you promise.’

‘I don’t _need_ to tie your hands.’

‘Then promise anyway.’

‘What, for old time’s sake?’

‘If you like.’

Jim smiles at him. Those first few months flash through his mind, watching him with Frankie, knowing he wasn’t the same as the rest of the goons. And then all that potential wasted, gone as soon as it was obvious he’d never really left the police. Making sure he got him into bed at the first possible moment because of it; another man ruined by the weakness of his desires. It’s so obvious a tool, but they never learn.

‘You were a good fuck, I’ll give you that.’

The corner of Peter’s mouth twitches up. He looks like a man who always knew this would be the way he went out, one way or the other. And Jim is, for once, going to give someone what they expect.

He pulls the trigger; no promises made, no sorrow for the way things end.

 

*

 

The papers next day are full of only one thing. The Book of Kells, returned to where it belongs. Jim scans the front pages and smiles, because current thinking appears to believe the whole thing was a hoax. Not only because it turned up relatively unscathed, but because of where it was found. Someone had placed it in the hands of one of the waxwork figures in the museum. The Joker, grinning as he always does, an eyebrow cocked towards the Guards who rushed in late yesterday evening.

Somewhere on page eight, there’s a story about a Blackrock boy found strapped to a chair wearing a bomb jacket. Scared witless, but alive. The bomb was active but not connected to a remote detonator. It would only have gone off if someone tried to remove it in person.

Jim tosses the paper into a bin in Liverpool. All the way through England he thinks about only one thing, and when he arrives in London he experiences the novelty of indecision. Everything in his head screams _south_. The rest of him tastes chlorine and listens to adrenaline pumping in his ears. So close; he’s _so close._ And there’s a whole other life in the palm of his hand, one where he might be able to step inside the glass and feel the snow on his cheeks. If the last two weeks have shown him anything, it’s that a life can change in the space of one conversation. He could get on the Tube, and stand outside that school, just like he used to. It’s only been two weeks, and it feels like two years.

But his hand is curled into a fist, crushing everything within. Nothing will have changed in two weeks. That life is a dream, just like the one where his family are not what they are. You can live a dream, but only if there are no other people in it. Other people ruin everything.

By evening he’s in Dover. The late editions are much the same. The page eight story has expanded to include the discovery of a body nearby. By tomorrow, if not sooner, they’ll have officially sourced the Semtex to Northern Ireland - but they’ll suspect it already, what with Peter being one of the police. It can only be a revenge killing, by people who murder informants every time they find them.

He turns more pages. And there, page fourteen. Two narrow paragraphs on the disappearance of a local youth. Clothes found on a stretch of beach in Dublin Bay. Appeals for witnesses, family in disarray. All the usual clichés. He can hear his mother’s shock, and his father’s silent….what? Relief? Any sorrow will be for a boy who was never real. Denise will tell police they were due to meet up on Monday, his supervisors will say he had the world at his feet, and there was no reason to suspect he’d do this. And no one will care, his name will melt to nothing. He will leave nothing but guilt behind.

He drops the newspaper overboard, and turns his face towards the Continent. Did he think about killing Eamon and pretending it was him? Yes, of course. But then James Moriarty would be splashed over the newspapers, with everyone asking why IRA explosives would murder an innocent Dublin kid. Far too much trouble to erase all that afterwards and anyway, you can’t kill a name once it’s in someone’s head. He could always change it, but he doesn’t want to. The only thing worth keeping is himself.

And now, there’s no need. No body, no fuss. A quiet funeral with an empty casket. This is so much less messy than killing them all, so much quieter. And now they get to spend the rest of their lives wondering what happened to him, and whether it was their fault.

The truth is, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. Belfast is meaningless, except what he learned. Peter is just a body; a loud face for a few weeks, and now gone. McBride can have Dublin and its drugs. He should thank his mother, probably; if they hadn’t decided to move home, he’d still be there dealing with it. Maybe that would have ended up his life; spending his days at the university, his nights directing the criminals of one small city on one tiny island.

He lifts his face to the horizon. The French coastline is just in view at the edge of the sea; a string of lights in the far distance, illuminating the night. Beyond them, land that stretches to the other side of the world. Gangs and territory on a global scale. War and genocide as he speaks. He learned Czech last week; this week he’s thinking Serbian. Next week, Croatian. Russian. Why not? There’s a stretch of gorgeous chaos out there, from the Baltic Sea to the Black. Room for a little one to squeeze in, surely? He may never come home again.

The thought reverberates through him. Home? No, never. Ireland has never been home, and he is not going to miss it. But will he come back here?

He turns, and faces north. The lights from Dover are nearly gone, just a suggestion of white in the far, far distance. Beyond them, a smaller land. But land that holds London, and in the middle of that city…

‘What do you think, Sherlock?’ he murmurs, and his voice does not carry beyond his own ears. ‘Shall I come to you?’

Maybe he will, eventually. Maybe he won’t be able to stay away.

But not yet, he thinks, and turns back to face a different way. A different life.

Not for a long time yet.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/write79/playlist/6Ft0ZyypDSXWoZIO01iumP).
> 
> Song: Marilyn Manson - Running to the Edge of the World
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to the people who stuck through the whole thing. It means a lot. <3


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